Wild Card
by Cars1
Summary: Edward Cullen's life revolved around his casino. He thought he had it all. She would prove him wrong.
1. Chapter 1

All characterizations, plot lines, backgrounds and details belong to the author. Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight.

_Thanks as always, to my beta the incredible __xrxdanixrx who also made the banner. Check out her wonderful new story Washed Up. XO BB _

_A million thanks to my dear friend MizzezPattinson who pre-reads this story. Much love, hun. I couldn't do it without you. XO_

So, I'm back with another story that has been brewing in my crazy head for a while. I hope you enjoy this story, and Casinoward.

Come, join me.

_Most casino patrons view gambling as a mix of witchery, mysticism, entertainment and dumb luck. Very few view it the deadly game that it is. – VP Pappy_

_**Edward**_

Chapter One

Expensive Italian leather, on the seats, on my feet, on the legs of the woman I fucked last night whose name is irrelevant.

The neon lights have faded. Everything seems less spectacular in the morning. Buildings blur past me as my driver winds through the streets, and I wonder how many people are waking up with regrets about what they did last night, what they didn't do, and what they don't remember.

I'm feeding their addiction, part of their downward spiral, or their rise out of mediocrity. Front row center to their pathetic bachelor parties, their mid life crisis, their girls weekend, their not so discreet affairs.

High rollers worth millions and whores worth less than the skin tight dresses they're almost wearing.

"Make sure the alcohol is flowing, the lights are pulsing, and the place is buzzing," Dad used to say. People want to let go, to become uninhibited. You laugh more; you spend more. It's a simple and predictable equation.

People want to forget and remember; usually both at the same time. I help them do that, bring them to the highest of highs and the lowest of the low, bring them back wanting, begging for more.

"Stopping for anything this morning, Mr. Cullen?" Sam, my driver asks.

"No." The privacy screen rises without another word.

We glide down the strip of reckless abandon and unbridled excess. I almost feel sorry for some of the people who come here. Their hopes, their dreams- for some of them their future-riding on the pull of a handle, the flip of a card, the roll of the dice.

Its glitz and glamour, hedonism and indulgence all brought to the people who flock through the doors like lambs to the slaughter at a head spinning pace.

People want a change. A mother needs a break from the monotony of school-dinner-homework-repeat. A middle-aged man is desperate to reclaim his youth. A young starry-eyed girl is running from home, thinking she'll find what she's looking for here. A couple wants a quickie wedding, more to piss off their families than to actually be together.

I am an enabler. I'm not alone. There are a group of us who own the hotels and run the casinos.

We tempt you, tease you, and indulge you.

We anticipate what you want when you leave your house in the suburbs with your white picket fence and mundane life, and we give it to you. We give to you until you can't see straight, and you take it, you fuck it, and you thank us for it in the morning.

It's grand, it's magnetic, it completely draws you in. You can let off steam, come and feel like you're being really bad.

_What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas_, so the tired saying goes.

You don't come here for reality-you come for fantasy, to live out some dream. There's not a lot of thought that goes into _what-if_. Your conscious is left at the door. It's life on the edge, an oasis in the middle of a desert, in the middle of nowhere. It's a place to run, a place to indulge, a place to forget your regimented life.

They come to get married; forty ceremonies a day in some of the chapels. They come to gamble. They come to fuck. They come to be amazed.

Feathers, rhinestones, tits and glitz, I once heard a show girl say. Expensive rooms, midnight buffets, and excess.

"Pretty girls sell," Dad always said. You don't just need to get their attention, you have to grab it and own it. Explore all the deadly sins, particularly greed… greed is good, and here, you don't need to feel guilty about it.

Las Vegas is wild and shameless. It's exhilarating when you first get here, and then, because it's completely superficial, it quickly wears thin. That's why vacations to Vegas are usually short ones. There is, after all, only so much indulgence those who live in mediocrity can take.

But while they're here, we do indulge them; their every fantasy, their every want available for a price. Marble floors, skylights, Cirque de Soleil, red pianos, celebrity shows, spinning restaurants, acrobats, steak for seven hundred dollars, choreographed fountains, high roller suites for ten grand a night.

You can indoor sky dive with Elvis, slither down a water slide into a pool with sharks, and walk in a rainforest all within the same day, all without leaving your resort. All from a pulsating, neon electrified building with so many lights, you can see it from space.

If you build it, they will come. Whoever said that was talking about Vegas.

The limo breezes by the manmade lake out front where the fountains are already dancing, and pulls up to the opulent entrance to The Oasis. It's already brimming with life. Pasty white tourists with their cameras fastened around their necks, pointing and snapping pictures feverishly, as if it's some mirage that's going to disappear.

The Oasis, I assure you, is most definitely not going to disappear. It's been here for decades. Started by my grandfather during the Vegas hay-days when gangsters called the shots, then passed on to my father, who renovated it and brought it back to life, and now, its mine.

Technically speaking, it actually belongs to my brother, Emmett, and me, but I call the shots. I run the show, and he is more than happy to let me do it. Emmett is content, playing Chief of Security and Surveillance. He thrives on it, and he's the best. Only the best will do for The Oasis.

We have a reputation; a cultured, sophisticated reputation. In amongst the seedy bars and tacky wedding chapels that dot the strip, there is a standard that the other casinos look to, and it is ours.

The rooms are elegant and refined, catering to a specific class of people. Sure, if you can afford it, you can stay here, we'll take your money, but the drunken, rowdy eighteen year olds, you won't find here very often. The same can't be said for the drunken, rowdy forty-five year olds. Those we get. With net revenue creeping over a billion dollars a year, we can afford to clean up their mess.

I step out of the limo and into the blistering morning sun. Sam doesn't say a word. He's paid an exorbitant amount of money to be at my beck and call. That I have a driver standing by, waiting for me, is beyond ridiculous. I can't remember the last time I drove anywhere by myself. I miss driving. I would really like to drive somewhere, again. Preferably alone.

It's already well into the nineties, and I can feel the heat hit me as it rises from the pavement. I make my way into the lobby, nodding to the team behind the opulent reception area as they make a point of saying, "Good morning, Mr. Cullen." I don't know any of their names. I don't need to.

The lobby is enormous and decadent, making you want to see more. Creamy marble, soaring ceilings, hand painted skylights, massive flower displays, staff scurrying about, helping VIPs with their Louis Vuitton bags. God forbid they should have to wait more than thirty seconds for someone to serve them.

Even though my dad ran this place for well over twenty years, I can see Mom's influence everywhere. Her attention to detail is reflected in every single room. Her love of art is in the gallery on the fourth floor that people flock to. Her intense passion for flowers is in the botanical gardens that Dad put in back in the nineties.

Everything is bigger and better at The Oasis_. _Over three thousand rooms and five hundred suites, nine award wining restaurants with varying themes and executive chefs that are famous in their own right. A one hundred thousand square foot casino, high limit lounges, a mall with the latest couture shops, and don't forget the spa. I was skeptical when Dad put it in, but I'm not anymore. It's currently taking bookings for a year from now.

Mrs. Cope, one of the few people who actually calls me Edward, greets me in front of the bank of elevators with a cup of tea and my agenda. She is, as always, impeccably dressed, her graying hair pulled into a tight bun, her glasses perched on top of her head.

This is the routine. It's been this way for five years. I don't need the tea or the agenda. I know what my day is going to be; filled with meetings, video conferences, and tonight, the Twilight Room. But Mrs. Cope thrives on routine. She was my father's personal assistant, and when he had a heart attack at the age of forty-eight, my mother insisted she stay and he retire.

That's what this place does to you. You're old before your time. Forty-eight year olds who exercise every day and eat like kings shouldn't be having heart attacks. This business is lucrative, highly pressured, and exceedingly intense. Success comes at a price. My father is fine now, content to travel to places most people only dream about with my mother. He can afford it, and fuck knows, he certainly earned it.

Mrs. Cope is a beacon of knowledge, a shrewd business woman who knows this business as well as Dad did. "Good morning, Mrs. Cope." I take the tea from her as she punches the code into the keypad on the door that leads to the private elevator.

I sip curiously, wondering what she's decided to bring me this morning. It's a little game she thoroughly enjoys. Every day, a different tea, usually related in some way to whatever insanity is on my agenda. "Hmm. Chamomile this morning?"

She smiles and nods. "I thought you could use it. Today is crazy, and you need something calming before it all starts," she answers.

I smirk at her as the door shuts behind us and we proceed to the elevator.

I punch the new code into the keypad that Emmett sent me this morning and wait while the elevator whirls to life. Emmett is nothing if not paranoid. Every hour, he has the codes changed to the elevators that lead to our offices and the vaults. Its part of his attempt to stay one step ahead of anyone who may foolishly think they can try to break his iron clad security plan.

Mrs. Cope opens up the leather bound journal and starts rattling off my appointments for the day. They are all stored away on my BlackBerry, and she doesn't need to remind me of any of them, but like I said, this is the routine. I think it calms both of us, actually.

The elevator opens, and we get in. It ascends quickly to the twentieth floor as I sip my tea. "_Gucci _looks good on you, Edward."

I smirk at her, smoothing down the tie that last night was wrapped around the wrists of the _Gucci_ sales associate who sold me the suit. "Yes, well, it was the least I could do, really, considering how… accommodating the sales woman was."

She returns the smirk, shaking her head at me. "You're worse than your father was," she scolds playfully.

"I highly doubt that," I reply. "And that's a happily married man you're talking about."

"Oh, he is, now, but before he met Esme…" She shakes her head, letting out a frustrated huff. "Let's just say he was busy."

I quirk an eyebrow. "As busy as I am?"

"More so, I'd say."

"Hmm. Perhaps I need to set my goals a bit higher, then."

"It is good to have goals," she says, furrowing her brow. "It's also good to have something other than work in your life."

"Says the woman who works twelve hours a day. And I have lots of other somethings in my life."

She rolls her eyes at me. "Here's the difference between you and me, Edward. At the end of the twelve hour days, I go home to a husband, a family, and a life. You go home with a stranger and end up in an empty house." I stare down at her, unable to argue. "I just worry about you."

"You don't need to worry about me. I can take care of myself."

"Sometimes, it's nice to have someone take care of _you_," she replies quietly. The elevator dings and opens, and we step out onto the marble floor. "I'll see you in the boardroom." She turns on her heel, heading down the hall while I sip my tea and try not to think too much about her unsolicited advice.

There are very few people who would be so forward with me. I admire it, actually, and I know her heart is in the right place, unlike most people. Most people are only interested in the lifestyle and the money. They could care less about me, and as the casino continues to flourish, it is getting exceedingly difficult to find people I can truly trust.

I make my way down the hall, stopping in front of the door to the surveillance room. I place my hand over the scanner and wait for it to turn green. I questioned Emmett when he made the decision to introduce biometrics into his security plan, but seeing the stats from the attempts to break into the system ended that argument quickly.

The door slides open, and I step into the buzzing observation room. "Anything interesting happening?" I ask Emmett as he sits from his perch, surveying the litany of flat screens and computers that line the wall in front of him and his dutiful staff.

It rivals technology found at NASA in here. State of the art surveillance, measuring everything from heat indexes to facial expressions to the tune of millions of dollars. All an unfortunate requirement where people try to cheat the system, including our own employees.

On average, over thirty percent of people arrested for theft or cheating in casinos are employees. It's a sad statistic that is often the focus of heated debate when the casino owners get together. We've managed to reduce that percentage significantly here with Emmett's obsession of staying ahead, and the fact that we treat our employees better than they would be treated in other casinos. The pay is higher, the perks are better, the vacation time more enticing. It has to be to get the best working for you. In this town, you get what you pay for.

The benefits of working here do not come without a price. It's not a life for everyone; the hours are long, the accountability is high, and the demands are intense. We also conduct random drug testing, something we had to institute after an incident with one of the pit bosses and too many hits of heroin one night. That's something I refuse to tolerate. I'm far from a saint; I enjoy my indulgences, that's just not one of them.

Dad always wanted us involved in the business, and he made sure we learned it from the ground up. Emmett and I started as dealers, were promoted to the floor, did a tour as pit bosses, and spent time in security. That was when it became glaringly obvious where Emmett was destined to excel. He made massive changes to the security system within a few months, and since then, there is no stopping him. He is the best in the industry; asked to speak at conventions, and called upon to give advice to other security executives. I know how lucky we are to have him.

I join him at his computer as his eyes stay fixed on the monitor. "Nothing interesting yet, but it is only eight forty-five in the morning," he says.

"Give them time. They're all recovering from last night's drunken debauchery."

"And how was your night?" he asks, tearing his eyes from the screen and smirking at me. "I saw you leaving with the sales chick from _Gucci_." He waggles his eyebrows at me.

"She's a seamstress, I think, and it was fine," I say dryly, sipping my tea.

"Just fine, huh?"

"Do you want the details, Emmett? Is Rose disappointing you, already?" He snorts at me. I know Rose isn't disappointing him. He's insanely in love with her. They met at one of the charity events we put on two years ago. She's an elementary school teacher and was there to accept a large donation we made to the literacy program for her school. See, casino owners aren't all that bad.

"You know I'm just teasing. Fuck knows you could use a relationship, rather than what you seem to have been doing for the last couple of years," he mumbles, returning his attention to the monitor. "Did you even get her name?"

"No." I lean against the desk as he zooms in on a man at one of the blackjack tables. With tracking cameras fixed over every table inside of black domes on the ceiling, we're able to study people with shocking intensity. Emmett assures me we aren't violating any privacy rules. I don't question him.

We watch silently for a few minutes, and I see quickly why he's so interested in him. "He's counting," I murmur.

"Thanks for the tip, genius," Emmett replies flatly. "Eric, run him through Biometrica."

Ah, yes, the face recognition software linked to a database that contains profiles on thousands of card counters, cheaters, VIPs, and compulsive gamblers. It's made surveillance and enforcement easier for the industry. I don't want to talk about how much it costs.

"How long has he been there?" I ask.

"At this table, about twenty minutes. He's been counting for ten."

"And the pit boss hasn't called up yet?"

"No. Not yet," Emmett grumbles, scowling at the screen. If a pit boss suspects a player of card counting or cheating, they are supposed to notify the surveillance room so we can track them. Emmett is clearly not impressed that hasn't happened yet. I doubt whoever the pit boss is will have their job by the end of the day.

"I'm assuming you'll deal with that," I say, turning and walking away from him.

"Oh, wait up," he calls to me. "I'll walk with you to the meeting."

I wait at the door, finishing my tea as he hands the surveillance room over to Eric.

I place my hand over the scanner and wait for the doors to open while Emmett smirks at me. "Who knew your 007 obsession would actually come in handy. You love these doors, don't you?" I ask.

He shrugs his shoulders at me. "Yeah, they're pretty cool." The doors open, and we continue down the hallway to the boardroom. "Mom wants you to come over on Saturday," he says casually.

"I thought they were in Spain?"

"They got back yesterday. They want to put us through some photo slideshow thing."

"And she called you instead of me?"

"You were busy last night," Emmett says, nudging me in the arm.

"Right."

We arrive in front of the glassed doors to the boardroom. "Oh, there's been a change to the Twilight Room for tonight," he says.

"What change?" I ask cautiously. Change in the Twilight Room is not a good thing. It's the exclusive VIP room where the highest of high rollers come by invitation only. You need over two hundred grand in our account to get an invite. They have expectations on presentation, on service, on the lighting, on just about everything. Any change to this room is a big deal.

"Angela got rushed to the hospital," he says.

Angela is one of the very few names of employees I _do _know. She's been managing the Twilight Room for the past seven months, and the VIPs love her. "Why is she in the hospital?"

"Some sort of appendix attack last night."

"And the back up plan is?"

"Bella Swan."

"And she would be?" Fuck, he's exasperating sometimes.

"For fuck's sake, Edward. She's been a manager at reception for over a year. You probably walk by her almost every day," he fires back at me, clearly annoyed.

"We employ over eleven thousand people, Emmett. I can't possibly remember them all."

"She's good with the customers and her team loves her," he continues.

"That may all be well and good, but does she have any idea what managing this particular room entails? Checking in a couple of guests is a far cry from catering to the bunch that's coming in here tonight," I bark at him.

"Jasper already kind of gave her the job. At least until Angela is back."

I raise an eyebrow. "He has, has he? Where was I when a decision like that was being made?" I ask, getting more pissed off by the second.

"Probably fucking the _Gucci _chick. Look, I know you're pissed and that this room is your pride and joy, but I know what I'm doing. Do you honestly think either Jasper or I would put somebody in there if we thought they couldn't handle it?"

"I know, it's just that room is intense at the best of times. And to have some newbie in there worries me."

"You worry too much," he says, hitting me on the back. "Her personnel file is on your desk and there's surveillance video you can look at. She's good at her job, man. Relax. It'll be fine, trust me."

Famous last words.

Chapter end notes:

Up next… let's meet Bella.

Thoughts?

Twitter: CarLemon


	2. Chapter 2

All characterizations, plot lines, backgrounds and details belong to the author. Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight.

_Thanks as always, to my beta the incredible __xrxdanixrx. Check out her wonderful new story Washed Up. XO BB _

_A million thanks to my dear friend MizzezPattinson who has graciously agreed to pre-read this story. Much love, hun. I couldn't do it without you.*Pull and Pray.* XO_

So, let's meet this Bella, shall we?

Come, join me.

_The only sure thing about luck is that it will change._ - Wilson Mizner

_**Bella**_

Chapter 2

The bus hisses, steam and dust rising from the baking asphalt as I'm pushed off by some idiot, who is blaring heavy metal from his iPod so loudly, he'll probably lose his hearing.

After a pointed and patented death stare, which goes unnoticed, I adjust my bag over my shoulder and navigate my way through the pockets of tourists, who have already started to wander the streets. It's only seven-thirty in the morning. If I was on vacation, I wouldn't be up at seven-thirty in the morning.

I take the short walk down to the _Sunrise Rehabilitation Center_, cursing the new pumps that I bought last night at _Payless_. What the fuck was I thinking? Right... you're going to be in the _Twilight Room_ tonight. My heart pounds faster at the thought. I don't know why I'm nervous. It's not like I haven't dealt with these people before. _But you haven't dealt with him.__  
><em>_  
><em>_Him_... Edward Cullen. Mr. CEO himself. I've seen him nearly every day for over a year as he breezes into the casino, impeccably dressed, and looking... delicious. There really isn't another word for him. Unfortunately, he knows he's delicious, as do the never ending women I've seen him leave with. I don't think I've seen the same one twice. Not that it matters, the most I've ever gotten from him is a head nod in my general direction. He doesn't speak to the lowly reception desk staff. I suppose he doesn't really have to. He's got bigger things to worry about than who wants a free upgrade to a suite.

I give my head a shake as I round the corner and approach the center. I shouldn't think so poorly about an employer who has been as good to me as he has, even if he doesn't know I exist.

I got my job at _The Oasis_ as a reception assistant just over a year ago. Part time was all I was looking for, then. It paid the rent and didn't interfere with my studying or limited social life.

Two months ago, after Charlie suffered a stroke, I knew part time wasn't going cut it anymore. I was forced to drop out of my MBA program at the University of Nevada and switch to full time in order to help pay for his rehabilitation.

The stroke left Charlie partially paralyzed on his left side, and while his disability insurance pays for some of his treatments, it certainly doesn't cover everything. We had hoped that he would be able to move back to his house by now, but that hasn't happened. So, I'm stuck paying the bills on the house, covering the expenses related to his long term care, and paying my own rent until that does happen.

Charlie has started to make progress over the last few weeks and is slowly relearning how to walk, but he still has a long way to go in order to be able to live by himself. It hasn't been easy for him, or for me, if I'm being honest. To see your father, a once vibrant and active man, unable to do basic functions like walking and feeding himself, or having to be helped to the bathroom, has been extremely difficult.

He's a proud man, and I know this has done more to damage his self-confidence than the actual physical damage. Still, the doctors are hopeful that with continual physio and speech therapy, he'll be able to make a recovery that will allow him to live independently.

I push open the glass door to the center and move to the reception desk, happy to be in the air conditioning. "Morning, Charlotte," I greet.

"You're here early. Is everything okay?" she asks, smiling back at me. Charlotte is Charlie's favorite nurse. She doesn't let him wallow and is constantly pushing him to try harder.

"Yeah, I'm just working late tonight, so I won't be able to see him. Is he awake?"

She nods. "He's in good spirits today."

"Thanks, Charlotte." I take the short walk down the hallway, the sterile smell assaulting me as I stop at his door. I knock and peek my head into his room. He's sitting with his back against the headboard, his legs under a beige blanket, a tray over his lap. His hand shakes as he tries to lift a spoon to his mouth, a look of concentration on his face.

"Morning, Daddy." My voice causes him to lose his grip on the spoon, and it crashes to the tray. He lifts his eyes to me slowly while I make my way to the blue chair beside his bed, pulling it next to him.

"Mmm… morrn, Bbells," he says, his eyes clenching shut as he struggles to say those two simple words. "Eearrrly." I smile at him, kissing the top of his head. It's taken him more weeks than I want to count to get to this point.

We've run the gamete of emotions since the stroke; frustration, sadness, anger, joy. His psychologist says it's all normal. It doesn't feel normal. I'd give anything to turn back the clock and have my father back.

"Yeah, I know. I have to work late tonight. I'm starting a new job at the casino," I explain. He furrows his brow. "Don't worry. It's in the high limit lounge. I'm sure there's a ton of security."

He nods slowly as I pick up the spoon, stirring the mystery beige concoction in the clear glass bowl. I spoon out a serving and bring it to his mouth, trying not to focus on his sad eyes.

_WC_

By the time I walk to _The Oasis_, its eight-thirty. My feet are killing me and I'm sweltering in the black skirt and blazer that is the coveted uniform for the reception staff. At least I don't have to think about what to wear to work every day, or spend a fortune on clothes.

I take the marble stairs to the overstated entrance, marveling at how busy it is already. Some people come to _The Oasis_ just to take pictures, or to visit the gardens. They ohh and ahh, point and whisper, hoping for a glimpse at a celebrity. It borders on crazy some days, but I know I'm lucky to have this job. It's the best casino in the city, and I'm paid extremely well for what I do.

Once my badge is scanned, I settle in and start my fascinating day of checking in VIPs and catering to their every ridiculous whim. I'm actually hoping today will be busy so I don't have time to think about tonight and the _Twilight Room_. If I think too much about it, I'm only going to get more nervous, and God knows, me getting nervous is never a good thing.

_WC_

It's three-thirty, and my heart is racing as I check the door to the private elevator for the twentieth time. Mrs. Cope called down at two o'clock, saying that Mr. Cullen wanted to see me, and that she would be down when he was ready. Apparently, his schedule is more important than mine. _Of course it is! He owns the place, Bella._

Still, I can't help but think that he's keeping me waiting on purpose. Like maybe this is a test or something. I shake my head at my overactive imagination and try to focus on arranging spa treatments for the pretentious pain in the ass in room 1482.

I'm in the middle of booking appointments when I hear the distinctive sound of the private door shutting. Unfortunately, Mrs. Cope's warm smile does nothing for my nerves. She's the picture of calm, carrying the leather bound journal that I think may actually be permanently attached to her hand.

"Good afternoon, Bella," she says, stopping at the side of the marble reception counter. "It's been busy down here today."

I nod, unable to actually speak. My mouth has gone dry, and I feel like I'm going to throw up. Idly I wonder how she knows it's been busy. I imagine she must have more important things to worry about than the activity at the reception desk.

"Mr. Cullen is ready to see you," she states.

_Holy shit._ "Okay," I squeak out. She smiles, waiting patiently as I give Emily instructions before I leave her in charge. Emily has become a good friend since she started a couple of months ago, and she knows how to handle this job. She gives me a reassuring smile as I pick up the binder, which I now consider my Bble, and follow Mrs. Cope on shaky legs to the private door.

Jasper had given me the massive binder, complete with detailed profiles on the players that frequent the _Twilight Room_ last night, after I agreed to cover for Angela. I studied it as much as I could, trying to learn their names, their likes, their personalities, and their drink preferences, until I fell asleep with the binder in my hands, my dreams full of random faces, casino chips, and blinking lights.

As Mrs. Cope punches in some code on a key pad next to the private door, I wonder what the fuck I was thinking agreeing to this. I'm so far out of my element here, its frightening. I can handle the reception desk and my team easily, but this seems more daunting, more demanding, more intense.

I know I'm about to enter unchartered territory here; that this world, the elite of the elite, is one which few people are ever allowed in to. She holds the door open for me, and we walk to the elevator. I watch as she punches another code into the pad beside it; codes to keep the undesirables out.

"Did you have a chance to look over Angela's notes?" she asks calmly as we wait for the elevator.

I nod, thankful beyond words for Angela and her information, which borders on stalkerish. "I did; although, right now, it's pretty much a blur," I admit.

She hums a response as the elevator doors open, and we step inside. I shift nervously beside her, having absolutely no idea what to expect.

The rumours about Edward Cullen spread like wildfire amongst the staff. He seems to be a bit of a dichotomy, hosting charity events one minute and cutting ruthless business deals that result in the eventual demise of other smaller casinos the next. He seems to be on a quest to take over Vegas, and he shows no signs of slowing down.

I look up at Mrs. Cope, who probably knows him better than almost anyone, and suddenly, the words are spilling out of my mouth before I can stop them. "What's he like?"

She smiles warmly at me. "Mr. Cullen?" I blink a response while the elevator whisks us up, leaving my stomach in the lobby. "Overbearing, demanding, arrogant." _Fuck._ That description does nothing to calm my nerves.

I study the marble floor of the elevator, wondering if somehow I can figure out a way for it to just swallow me up. I feel her squeeze my arm gently in reassurance. "It's okay, dear. Under all the bravado and the expensive suits, he's just a man… an extremely frustrating one at times, but just a man."

Right…_just a man_. I can handle a man. I do it everyday. Conceited assholes are my specialty. God knows I've had experience here with the rich playboys, coming for a weekend vacation and spending Daddy's money with reckless abandon, assuming they can just throw you a smile and get you to drop your skirt the next minute.

"You can handle this, Bella. You wouldn't be here if Jasper thought you couldn't."

_Jasper_… I stop short of telling her that Jasper probably gave me this assignment because he just couldn't take Alice hounding him every waking minute about promoting me.

I owe my job at _The Oasis_ to Alice. She's been my best friend since high school. We commiserated over teenage crushes, biology tests, and finding the perfect dress for the prom. She sat on my couch and let me cry my eyes out over what I thought at the time was a devastating breakup with Mike Newton, my first real love in college. She was there when I got the call from the police station that Charlie had his stroke. And it was Alice who suggested I go see her new boyfriend, the Director of Human Resources, at the prestigious _Oasis_ for a job.

"They're always hiring people, Bella," she'd said. "You'd be great there, and Jazz says they pay really well." That was really all I needed to hear. Paying really well was and still is a priority, given the expenses that I'm responsible for handling.

The elevator dings ,and the doors open to a lavish hallway and a large cherry wood door with gold lettering, signaling our arrival at the legendary _Twilight Room_. Mrs. Cope holds the elevator open, waiting as I pick my jaw up off the floor, my eyes taking in the massive security guard, who stands in front of the door with his arms folded across his chest.

"Mrs. Cope." The menacing security guard nods at her, his eyes sweeping over me. "Miss Swan." _He knows my name? How does he know my name?_ My heart starts beating faster as I step out of the elevator, my shoes sinking into the plush burgundy carpet.

Mrs. Cope steps back into the elevator. "Let me know how it goes, dear."

"You're not coming in?" My voice squeaks out as the elevator doors start to close again.

She shakes her head at me. "No." _No?_ What the fuck? Don't leave me here with this freak of nature and God only knows what, waiting for me behind that door. The panic spikes, and I watch helplessly as the elevator doors shut and Mrs. Cope disappears, along with her welcoming smile.

The guard opens the massive door to the _Twilight Room_, gazing down at me intensely, and I step through, my feet landing on a honey coloured hardwood floor. The door closes firmly, the sound echoing through the substantial room, while I clutch the binder to my chest, holding onto it for dear life.

I've never seen anything like this. I step up to an elevated floor, scanning the bar that seems to take up the entire left side of the room. There are sleek, modern, brown leather stools and couches, surrounding a huge stone fireplace in the corner. I wonder why anyone would want or need a fireplace in Las Vegas.

Interlinking metal, glass, and silver-leafed screen partitions separate the bar from the ample gaming area which holds several half circle shaped blackjack tables and oval poker tables, covered in expensive looking burgundy felt.

The lighting is muted and understated with ornate chandeliers and sumptuous brown, leather chairs dotting each of the tables. Modern art work ordains the rich coffee painted walls. I'm sure they're worth a fortune.

It's all impressive and intimidating, and I'm feeling light-headed. I'm sure it was designed specifically to make you feel that way.

And then I see him.

Directly across from the door, seated at one of the blackjack tables, moving a rectangular cream colored card methodically through his fingers, his eyes focused, razor sharp on mine.

I'm melting, hyperventilating, close to passing out as I take in his perfectly tailored grey suit, the black pinstriped tie, his angular jaw firmly set as he sits in complete command of the room. He doesn't say a word to acknowledge my existence.

I see a single card dealer standing perfectly straight, his hands hanging at his sides, waiting it seems. He nods his head to the table, and I somehow remember how to walk, the sound of my new pumps clicking across the floor, distracting me from this beautiful specimen of a man before me.

I take a step up to the raised floor that the table sits on, my heart hammering. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Cullen," I think I say, although I really can't be sure. I think I've left my body. I've never seen anyone look at me like this, all intense and dark. It's nerve-racking. He's worse than the mutant standing guard outside.

"Do you like surprises, Miss Swan?" he asks, his voice even and unemotional, the card turning between his long fingers.

Do I… what? No pleasantries, no idle chit-chat about the weather? Alright, then. _He's just a man._I try to focus on Mrs. Cope's words, praying they'll help me through this. "It depends on the circumstances."

He raises an eyebrow. "Give me an example of a surprise you would enjoy." Jesus, how do people function in this man presence? I stare back at him, his angular jaw and wayward hair highlighted by the muted glow of the light above. He doesn't even look real.

I grip the binder tighter; something to hold onto to keep me from passing out. "Well, if I got flowers for no reason, or if I ran into someone I hadn't seen in while, I'd like that kind of a surprise."

"And what about a surprise you wouldn't enjoy?" he asks, cocking his head to the side.

Oh, well that's easy. "I don't like to be embarrassed. Last year, one of my friends threw me a surprise birthday party. I hate being the centre of attention." Kind of like I am right now. I feel the heat rise in my face.

"Well, we have something in common."

I relax slightly. "You don't like to be the centre of attention, either?"

"No. That I love," he answers, his expression stern, my momentary relaxation dissolving. "I don't like to be embarrassed. You're not going to embarrass me, are you, Miss Swan?" Holy fuck, he's gorgeous, and confident, and so fucking sure of himself, and I just feel like some small insignificant speck.

"I'm going to try not to," I reply, my voice a whisper.

"I also don't like surprises. I was surprised to learn that Angela was in the hospital, and I was surprised to learn that _you_would be taking her place." His eyes sweep down me. He motions to an empty, imposing brown leather chair at the table. "Sit." So I do. He's not exactly asking. "Tell me what you know about this room."

"This is the first time I've seen it," I say timidly.

The eyebrow rises higher. He's mastered the intimidating stare. "You can do better than that."

I take a deep breath, trying to find my confidence. I must have left it in the elevator. "I know that it's exclusive. That the only people who are allowed in are the ones you invite. You sent out eighteen invitations for tonight. Sixteen have accepted." He continues to move the card through his fingers, the thin gold threads that weave through it catching the light from the chandelier above the table. It's beyond distracting.

"Go on," he presses.

"You only open the room a few times a week. I'm not sure why, maybe to keep them wanting more. You don't want to give people too much of a good thing."

"You don't know Vegas very well if that's your opinion. It's all about too much of a good thing." He hesitates, watching me closely before continuing. "Tell me about some of the people who have accepted my invitation tonight." I pull the binder from my chest and open it. He frowns in obvious disapproval. "You won't have a binder to help you tonight, Miss Swan."

My eyes flicker away from his and to the dealer who just stares at the burgundy table, emotionless. He's clearly not about to help me. I set the binder on the chair beside me, my eyes locking onto his as he silently tests me. I clear my throat and pray to God I remember something from Angela's endless pages of notes.

"Jane Sampson. She's fifty-one, a recent widow who has had one too many plastic surgeries, and whose much older and wealthy husband died a few months ago from a heart attack. The rumour around the casino is he died while she was fucking him." My cheeks blaze under my blatant description.

"Hmm. Not a bad way to go," he muses.

"If women like Mrs. Sampson turn you on, I suppose." _Oh God!_Did I actually just say that? Me and my stupid inability to keep my mouth shut.

"Are you asking me what type of woman turns me on, Miss Swan?" he asks, clearly not amused.

"No, I was just... I'm... No," I ramble. I'm unable to break away from his stare. I'm the fly in the web, the lamb being brought to the slaughter. That last thought brings me out of my haze.

"Riley Biers. He's young and rich," I continue.

"They're all rich, Miss Swan. Tell me something interesting about him."

"He won seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars the last time he was here. I imagine that's what you mean when you say interesting." He nods, saying nothing. "James Miller. He's only been here once before. He brought a woman, Victoria, with him. She's like his good luck charm or something."

"Or something?" He seems amused by that. "How does he take his martinis?"

"He doesn't drink martinis. He drinks scotch. Neat. Preferably Glenfiddich." Stick that in your expensive pipe and smoke it, Cullen.

He nods, stopping the distracting turning of the card and holding it in his hand. "I'm impressed, Miss Swan. I don't impress easily."

"Angela kept good notes," I mumble, shifting in the chair and feeling pretty damn proud of myself.

"Never give credit to someone else. You have obviously been trying to prepare for this, and I admire that." I smile back at him, but he doesn't return it. "For future reference, Mr. Miller drinks Macallan scotch, not Glenfiddich." I take in a shaky breath. "Have you ever gambled before, Miss Swan?"

"Bella." I correct him.

"Okay, have you ever gambled before, _Bella_?" The way my name falls from his lips sounds entirely too good.

"No."

He furrows his brow. "Do you honestly think I don't know what goes on in this town?" he asks incredulously.

_Shit!_ "Okay, so I've gambled a couple of time before. I wouldn't even really classify it as gambling. It was like twenty bucks on the slot machines with some of my girlfriends after work, over at _Eclipse,_" I blather, lowering my eyes from him.

"How did it feel when you won that sixty dollars at _Eclipse_?"

"You know I won sixty dollars?" I ask in disbelief, looking back up at him.

"Do you really have to ask me that?" I simply stare at him, not knowing how to respond. "You're an employee gambling at another casino. It's my job to know, and I see everything, Bella." His words are unsettling. I mean, of course I know that there are cameras and security in the casino, but spying on employees? Is that even legal? Oh God! Has he watched me here before? Is that how he gets his kicks? "How did it make you feel?"

"It felt good," I answer truthfully.

"And yet you felt the need to lie to me about it. Why?"

"I don't know. I guess I didn't want you to think I was some hardcore gambler or something."

He chuckles "Hardcore gamblers are part of the reason this casino exists, part of the reason you have a job."

I shift uneasily. I've offended him. _Way to go, Bella_. "Mr. Cullen, I—"

"Have you played blackjack before?" he asks, recommencing the turning of the card between his fingers.

"At home with my dad."

I see a hint of a smile. The first I've seen since I walked in here and fell under his heated scrutiny. "Play a hand with me. For this." He places the card down on the _Oasis_ logo in front of him. "Do you know what this is?" I shake my head at him. "It's a five thousand dollar plaque. That's the minimum bet at this table."

I swallow audibly, looking up from the plaque. "I don't have five thousand dollars to give you when I lose."

He smirks at me. "Well, technically, in blackjack, you're not playing against me, you're playing against the dealer, and who says you're going to lose?"

"Well, obviously, I'm going to. I have no idea how to play this, and you've got like a ton of experience," I say.

"You can count to twenty-one, can't you?" His smirk widens.

"Of course I can," I fire back at him. You arrogant prick.

"Then you know how to play blackjack."

I look down at the plaque and then up to him. "I'm sure there's more to it than that."

"Humour me," he says, his green eyes blazing.

"Seriously, I don't have that kind of money, Mr. Cullen."

"How about this, then? We'll play a hand. If you lose, we'll just give the plaque over to Harry, here. If you win, you keep it," he says casually, as if five thousand dollars isn't a big deal.

"What? That's not… Are those even the rules?"

"No. But I'm breaking all of the rules now and this is my casino. Harry?"

The dealer, who I had all but forgotten, comes to life, turning his head to Mr. Arrogant. "Yes, Mr. Cullen?"

"Deal," he says firmly, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Of course, sir," Harry responds, robotically moving to the large stack of cards in front of him and shuffling it with flourish before placing it into a rectangular box.

It seems to take a year as Cullen's eyes burn into mine before Harry extracts a card from the box, placing it face up on the table in front of me. I break away from his gaze long enough to notice a jack of hearts staring back at me.

Harry turns over an eight of clubs in front of Cullen and a seven of hearts in front of himself. He then turns over a king of clubs next to my Jack and a ten of diamonds next to Cullen's eight. He keeps the card he deals to himself face down.

"Miss Swan?" Harry's voice echoes through the room, my eyes darting between my cards and Cullen. He lifts his eyebrows to me. I turn in Harry's direction. "Hit or stay?" he prompts.

"Stay." It sounds more like a question than an answer.

Cullen taps the table behind his cards with his enticingly longer index finger. "I'm feeling lucky today," he states, his gaze penetrating.

Harry pulls a card, flipping it over to reveal a five of diamonds. Cullen doesn't even look at it. He doesn't seem fazed at all that he's out of the game. Harry then turns over the card that is face down in front of him. It's a ten of spades. Harry has seventeen, and I have twenty. I take an audible gasp in.

"Congratulations, Miss Swan," Harry says.

"You're not going to take another card?" I ask Harry, while Cullen smirks in amusement.

"He has to stay at seventeen or higher. Those are the casino rules."

"Oh." I look at the five thousand dollar plaque on the table in front of him.

"How does it feel? Walking in with nothing and leaving with everything on the table?" Cullen asks.

"I don't know. Like it's not real," I say quietly.

"Imagine how Mr. Miller or Mrs. Sampson will feel when it's not just five thousand dollars, but fifty or a five hundred thousand," he says, the corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly as his eyes stay locked to mine. "That will be all, Harry."

Effectively dismissed, Harry nods to me and without another word, steps down from the raised floor and makes his way out the door, leaving me alone… with him.

Chapter end notes:

Oh, dear.

Thoughts on our Bella and her first encounter with Casinoward?

Twitter: CarLemon


	3. Chapter 3

All characterizations, plot lines, backgrounds and details belong to the author. Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. April, 2011.

_Thanks as always, to my beta the incredible __xrxdanixrx, who also made the awesome banner. Check out her new story, Washed Up. XO BB _

_A million thanks to my dear friend MizzezPattinson who pre-reads this story. Much love, hun. I couldn't do it without you.*Pull and Pray.* XO_

Let's see what the rest of the day brings.

Come, join me.

_If you wanna make money in a casino, own one. _- Steve Wynn, Vegas casino owner

_**Edward**_

Chapter 3

The sound of the door shutting behind Harry causes Bella to jump slightly in her seat as I stare back at her, her brown eyes wide and panicked, but warm. Everything about her is warm; her smile, even her nervous personality that she's desperately trying to hide from me. She's not going to last five minutes with the group that's coming here tonight.

If I didn't know that after reading her employee file and watching the surveillance tapes this morning, I sure as fuck know it now. She's too timid, too genuine to be part of all of this. Some of these people are ruthless, they can smell inexperience and fear, and they'll chew her up and spit her out.

They expect confidence, they expect composure, they expect that the people who are in this room understand at least the basics. They expect quick responses and cool demeanors, not warmth and girl-next-door sweetness. I wonder what the hell Jasper was thinking when he offered her this job.

Having read her file, I know that on paper, she's technically qualified. She's been employed here for over a year, switching to full time a few months ago after her father suffered a stroke. She has a flawless attendance record and glowing reviews. Her team, as Emmett so quickly pointed out, does seem to love her, and she's even managed to impress the Denali sisters, which in and of itself is a miracle.

Those two are vipers. I didn't think they had a redeemable bone in either one of their plastic bodies, until I read the letter of thanks they wrote to her. Apparently, a few weeks ago, Bella went out of her way to help when their father passed away unexpectedly, and they were forced to cut their party weekend in Vegas short.

I'm also painfully aware that the surveillance tapes do not do her justice. Bella Swan is a beautiful woman. Understated beauty. It's difficult to find, especially in this town. She's real, her soul still miraculously in tact despite the sins of this city. It's easy to get lost in sin here, and yet somehow, she's managed not to.

The fact that she has gone unnoticed by me for over a year is unsettling and makes me wonder what else I'm missing in my own casino. Granted, I can't possibly know everyone who works for me, but being unaware of Bella Swan should be a crime.

In the last few minutes, she managed to annoy me, amuse me, and turn me on without even knowing she's doing any of it. Despite the dangerous attraction I have for her, I can sense there is much more to her than the obvious.

Her eyes flicker to the plaque on the table, bringing me back to reality. There it is. They all just want the money. Why should she be any different?

"You want this, don't you?" I ask coolly, nodding my head to plaque on the table.

"No. I mean, I know you were just trying to prove a point."

I cock an eyebrow to her. Maybe there's hope for her yet. "And what point would that be?"

Her eyes lock to mine, burning and determined. "That people are greedy and driven to want more. That the rush of me winning this amount of money is nothing compared to what the people who are coming here tonight are going to feel," she says firmly and with surprising confidence. Perhaps I was too quick to dismiss Miss Swan.

"And do you want more, Bella?"

She takes an audible breath in. Fuck, I'm an asshole. She's trying hard, she's clearly done at least some minimal research in an attempt to impress me, and I'm just taunting her, teasing her, and having way too much fun to stop with this gorgeous woman, who is clearly out of her element.

That's the pattern that seems to have taken over my pathetic life. Taunt, tease, fuck, walk away. It's easier that way.

She shifts in her chair, squaring her shoulders and trying to look authoritative. It's hot as fucking hell and distracting. I don't need distractions. Not in my life and certainly not tonight. "I think I need to know more about what's going to go on in here before I answer that question," she says.

I feel my smile widen. It's not often that people voice their opinion with such intensity. "What would you like to know?"

"What exactly do people expect of me, of Angela, of anyone who works in here?" she asks.

"They expect perfection. It's all about anticipating. Filling their glass before they even know it's close to being empty, knowing their names, catering to their whims."

She looks at me warily. "Their whims? As in…"

"If they want to sit and talk because they're lonely and everyone else in their life has abandoned them, that's what you do. If they want you to stand quietly beside them while they bet thousands of dollars on one hand, so be it."

"I thought I was managing the team in here," she says, looking confused.

"You are, but it's also your job to make sure that when people leave here, they want to come back. Always keep them coming back. And the team, the servers, they should be invisible. The last thing people want is hovering."

"No hovering," she mumbles. "So, I'm like a glorified waitress or something?"

"You're the most important person in this room, Bella. Angela could make players feel at ease, and when you're at ease, you play more, you bet more. It's a simple equation. Keep them happy, keep their drinks full, cycle the staff _before_ they become tired or bored," I explain.

She nods her head. "And their wives, their fucks for the night, their good luck charms as you said, they need to be just as happy. Probably more so than the players. I don't want Riley Biers preoccupied because his whore for the night is restless," I say flatly, gauging her reaction.

She twists her fingers nervously in her lap. "Can I be honest with you, Mr. Cullen?"

I laugh darkly. "That would be a first."

"A first?" she asks.

"Honesty and this business… they don't normally go together."

She furrows her brow. "I don't think I'm the best person for this job."

I stare back at her, completely floored. I can't remember the last time anyone turned down a job from me. I can't remember the last time anyone was this open and honest about how they feel, and so I give her my brutally honest answer back. "No. You probably aren't, but lucky for you, the best person for this job is lying in a hospital bed and will be there for foreseeable future."

She cocks her head. "And you think that's lucky?"

"Luck is all a matter of perspective."

"I'm pretty sure Angela doesn't think she's lucky," she mumbles, her eyes flickering back to the table before they meet mine again.

I smile at her boldness. Most people would have bolted out the door at this point, but I am starting to realize that she is not most people. "I'm not going to lie to you. This isn't an easy job, and the lines between reality and fantasy are blurred. Somewhere between the blinking slot machines and the rattle of poker chips, people can lose perspective." She wets her bottom lip, and I can feel the anticipation, the want building. "You can't be one of those people. Managing this room is all about keeping things in perspective."

Her eyes dart to the bar. "How many people work in here?" she asks.

"Ten. Not including security and the dealers."

"Ten people for sixteen players and their guests? Is that enough?" she questions incredulously.

"They're the best. And it wouldn't look good if we had more staff than guests, would it?"

"No. I guess not," she mutters her answer.

"Do you know how much money will exchange hands here tonight?"

"A lot," she breathes.

I smirk at her naivety. "You could say that. It isn't all about the money, though. People come here to get away from the plush blue carpet sinking beneath their feet, from the hissing roulette wheels, and the buzz of the crowds. They get tired of foolhardy bets and gambling with amateurs. They want more. More than the dice that dance over the cheap green felt at another casino can offer them." She straightens in her chair, leaning forward.

"People want to say they came here, to this room. And whether they win or lose, it makes them feel important, like they've taken a step up, like maybe if they come back, they can be legendary, and someone will remember them."

"When can I meet the team?" she asks. Ever the dutiful manager.

"They start at eight. The room opens at ten."

"Ten?" she asks, her eyes wide.

"Did you have a date or something better to do?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she fires back. Feisty. I like feisty.

I stare at her impassively. "I can find out."

Her face falls, and she leans back in her chair. "I don't doubt that."

"Good. I'll send Mrs. Cope to collect you when Harry is back around five. He can walk you through some of the finer points of blackjack and poker."

"I need to know the finer points?" she asks, clearly concerned.

"You need to know more than you do, right now." I sweep my eyes down the standard black uniform that regretfully hides her body. "I'm assuming you have something more appropriate with you to wear?"

She furrows her brow, looking down at the blazer. "This isn't the uniform for the room?"

I lift an eyebrow. "Do you really think the people who are coming here tonight want to be greeted by the same average uniform that everyone else has?"

She shakes her head. "Probably not. I didn't bring anything else with me. Jasper didn't mention a dress code," she says nervously.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I'm going to have to talk to Jasper about this whole thing and what the fuck he was thinking. I stand up from the table, flattening my tie down my chest, watching in amusement as she scrambles to her feet. "I'll have Mrs. Cope call down to the concourse. You can get yourself whatever you think you'll need. I'd suggest _Gucci_ or _Prada_. Something tasteful and elegant."

Her mouth drops open. "What? I can't afford _Gucci_ or _Prada_, or any of those stores down there," she says, a hint of panic in her voice.

I push the chair in, retrieving the plaque from the table, and move to stand in front of her. "I'll take care of it, Bella."

She stares up at me, shaking her head. "No. That's just… no, I couldn't… you can't do that," she stammers.

I smirk at her, thoroughly enjoying the fact that I seem to annoy and frustrate her. I step down from the table, moving to the door, hearing her shoes echo through the room as she trails along behind me. I stop at the door and turn to her, my eyes drinking her in. "I can, and I will." My eyes fall to her cheap high heels, which are anything but Italian leather. "And get some new shoes, as well. Those will kill your feet if you're standing in them all night."

I see a flash of anger in her eyes as she narrows them at me. I ignore her and open the door. "After you."

She holds my gaze and steps into the hallway. "Oh shit! Hang on!" she yells. I watch in amusement as she runs across the hardwood floor, my eyes fixated on her ass in that skirt. She is entirely too enticing for her own good. She steps up to the blackjack table and retrieves her binder from the chair, holding it close to her chest as she walks back slowly to me.

"Yes. We couldn't forget that, could we?" I murmur. She flushes, but keeps her head held high as I punch the code into the elevator. Her eyes flicker to the plaque in my hands. "Consider this your bonus, if you make it through the night."

"Mr. Cullen, I don't expect to…"

The elevator dings and opens as I place the plaque into the inner pocket of my jacket. "I know you don't." I hold the door open for her while she stares up at me questioningly. "I'll see you this evening."

"You're not coming with me?" she asks.

"Shopping? No. I did enough shopping last night." The memory of the _Gucci_ seamstress flashes for a moment, her face replaced quickly with Bella's, her mouth dropped open, my name falling form her lips as I fuck her against the wall in my foyer.

I shake my head as she steps onto the elevator. "I guess I'll see you tonight, then," she says nervously.

I nod and lean into the elevator, my arm grazing hers as I press the button for the shopping concourse. First contact. It's comforting, and I want more. I let go of the door and watch as she disappears behind it.

I stand for a moment, staring at the door, letting out a long breath, my hands raking through my hair, feeling completely unsettled; something that rarely happens to me.

Peter's voice clearing behind me brings me back to reality. I turn and see a hint of a smile. "Miss Swan seems like an interesting woman," he notes, maintaining his usual overbearing and intimidating stance in front of the door.

"Yes. Yes, she does." I move past him down the hallway, trying to put thoughts of Bella Swan out of my head.

_WC_

"What the fuck are you thinking?" Jasper's eyes widen as I unleash on him in my office. "She's not ready to manage that room and you know it."

"Good afternoon to you, too," he says casually, sauntering to one of the visitor's chairs in front of my desk. I shake my head at him as he smirks at me, sinking into the chair. "It'll be fine. You're way too anal about that room, man."

"I'm way too anal? What the fuck, Jasper? Do you know how much money will go through that room tonight? I have every right to be anal about it."

"She's a solid worker. Her team has nothing but good things to say about her. Hell, even some of the VIPs know her, and lets face it, it's not exactly rocket science." I huff in frustration. "Do you have another option that I don't know about?" he asks sarcastically.

"No." I get up from my chair and move to the window, looking down over the gardens and pools below. Typical sun worshippers, wandering in and out of the casino, craving both the air conditioning and the blistering heat at the same time. They're like little, insignificant specks from up here. "And if she's so fucking fantastic, why haven't you talked about her before?"

"Do I really have to answer that? Edward, you're way too busy to worry about every single person in this place. That's why you have me."

I turn from the window, leveling him a stare. "If she screws up, it's your ass I'm coming for."

He laughs. "Are you switching teams, now?"

"Fuck off." I smirk at him.

"And Esme would never let you do that. She loves me."

"It's a good thing someone does." My mom and dad do love Jasper. His family is extremely wealthy, his father making his fortune raising and racing horses. Our families run in the same social circle, and as a result, Emmett and I have known Jasper for a very long time.

We've shared university fraternities and legendary weekends of drinking and indulgence until I took over _The Oasis_, effectively bringing all of that to a screeching halt.

Despite his father's pushing, it became clear quickly that Jasper didn't want anything to do with running the family business. He actually loves horses, but only to ride them himself. So, when his father retired, they sold the business, keeping Jasper's favourite horse, and are now multi millionaires. Jasper doesn't technically even have to work. He just does this because he loves it, and I'm happy to have him. He's one of the few people I trust implicitly, and he does an amazing job with the employees. Happy employees mean happy customers, another simple equation.

"Have I ever steered you wrong before?" he asks.

"There was that time in Phoenix…" I start as we both laugh at the memory.

"How long are you going to hold that over my head? She said she was single."

"They all say they're single when they can smell money. Have I not taught you anything?"

He chuckles, leaning back in the chair. "We haven't done anything like that in a long time."

"Yes, well, your days of playing the field are clearly over. How is Alice?"

He shifts uneasily, and I raise an eyebrow. "She's good. Actually, there's something I need to talk to you about."

I move back to my desk and sit down in my chair. "Okay."

"Alice and Bella… they're kind of friends," he says cautiously.

"For fuck sake, Jasper! Are you that fucking whipped that you're letting your girlfriend dictate your employment choices? Honest to God, if you weren't my best friend-"

He narrows his eyes at me, clearly on the defensive. "You're out of line, man. And Alice didn't make this choice. I did. Bella is the best option we have right now, short of me hiring someone away from _Eclipse, _which I didn't exactly have time to do." I can feel the stress rolling off me. I don't have fucking time to deal with this shit. "Oh, and I know you probably don't want to hear this, right now, but I think we may have a mole."

I feel my body coil. "What?"

"_Eclipse _just happened to announce the opening of their new show this afternoon, right before our press release went out. Guess what it is?"

I feel the anger spike as I stare back at him. "Please don't tell me it's a show like _Dawn_ is." _Dawn_ is a multi-million dollar acrobatic and musical show, employing over two hundred performers. It's been negotiated under a curtain of secrecy and set to open next month.

He nods his head. "Billed as, and I quote, "a jaw dropping extravaganza." Apparently, more daring and more electrifying than anything you've seen before. It opens two weeks before ours. Oh ,and guess what he called it?" I feel my jaw set. I'm going to snap. I can feel it. "_Dusk_."

"Fucking Jacob Black," I seethe, sending whatever file is on my desk hurling across the room. That man is the fucking bane of my existence.

Jacob owns _Eclipse_, a marginal casino by our standards. Our gentlemen's rivalry started out harmlessly; he snatched up a few employees of mine ,and I returned the favour. It's progressed since then as he tries his best to one-up me at every turn.

We ordered new poker tables, bringing our total to fifty in the private room. Two weeks later, the tables weren't as nice, but he had sixty of them. There's something to be said about his tenacity; however, his boorish reputation and lack of attention to detail will always keep him coming up short. That doesn't mean its not annoying as hell. "Who the fuck does he have planted in here?"

"If I knew that, it wouldn't have happened," Jasper answers.

I hit the button on my phone that connects with Mrs. Cope and wait. "Good afternoon, Edward," she says, her voice calm, cool, and collected.

"Get Emmett in here, now!" I bark at her.

"Right away," she says, disconnecting from me.

"How the fuck did he find this out? They've been booked for months, now. This is supposed to be confidential!"

"I don't know, Edward. You know how tightly everyone is bound around here."

I push back forcefully from the desk, pacing the floor in my office, before stopping at the oval glass bar in the corner and moving behind it. "I need a fucking drink."

_WC_

"That's right, take it all," I murmur as I sink my hands into the dyed blonde hair of the woman who is currently on her knees, sucking my dick. Everything about this is wrong. I went down to the exclusive _New Moon_ lounge on the fourth floor specifically to find someone to fuck. I've done it countless times before, so why should now be any different? But it is.

After trying to deal with the shit storm that hit this afternoon, I did something I've never done before. I actively searched out an employee using our surveillance system. Yes, of course I've logged into the system and scanned the casino, usually when security wants to make me aware of an unusually high win or a questionable player, but this… this is new territory for me.

The fact that I'm intrigued by this woman is, in and of itself monumental. Women don't intrigue me—ever. They amuse me. They satisfy a need. But when I finally found Bella, in the office behind reception, studying that ridiculous binder as if she were cramming for some exam or something, I found myself unable to tear away.

I watched as she pushed her hair behind her ear countless times, twirling a pen between her fingers and dropping it frequently in frustration. I watched her furrow her brow, looking at the binder and then shutting her eyes as if she was trying to memorize its contents.

I watched for much longer than I know I should have. I'm not any better than your average peeping Tom, and with that sobering thought, I knew I needed some fucking release before navigating the intensity of the _Twilight Room_.

But now, as I rock my hips against the blonde and fuck her mouth, it all feels wrong. Sure, she's a willing participant and obviously knows what she's doing, but all I feel is empty, emotionless, and disgusted with myself.

She hums around my cock and swallows everything, looking up at me all proud of her accomplishment. She slips back onto the bed and starts to shimmy her virtually non-existent skirt over her hips.

I pull my pants back up and without another word, move to the bathroom.

"Hey!" she complains.

"You can see yourself out." I shut the door to the bathroom, leaning against it.

"That's it? You're just leaving me here like this?"

"Maybe another time," I call through the door, knowing there will never be another time. I'll never see this blonde again.

"Fucking bullshit." I hear her grumble, followed by silence, and then the sound of the door to the bedroom suite slamming. I wait longer than I know I need to before moving to the sink and taking in my pathetic reflection. I lean against the marble vanity, gripping the edge and feeling like I'm going to vomit.

I am on top of the world. A millionaire multiple times over, with this city in the palm of my hand. So why do I feel so alone?

Chapter end notes:

Oh, Edward. He really has no idea.

Thoughts?

Twitter: CarLemon


	4. Chapter 4

All characterizations, plot lines, backgrounds and details belong to the author. Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight.

_Thanks as always, to my beta the incredible __xrxdanixrx, who also made the awesome banner. Check out her new story, Washed Up. XO BB _

_A million thanks to my dear friend MizzezPattinson who pre-reads this story. Much love, hun. I couldn't do it without you.*Pull and Pray.* XO_

Let's see how the rest of the day looks for Bella. Come, join me.

_Casinos and prostitutes have the same thing in common; they are both trying to screw you out of your money and send you home with a smile on your face._ -V.P. Pappy

_**Bella**_

Chapter 4

The elevator doors close, and I'm whisked down at a shocking speed, my stomach plummeting with me. "Holy fuck," I breathe, looking up to the ceiling and trying to get my bearings.

_I see everything, Bella._ His words swirl in my head as I quickly try to compose myself. If he sees everything, I'll be damned if he's going to witness me crack. I've never been this simultaneously pissed off and turned on in my life. The nerve of that man is unbelievable. _Get yourself some new shoes?_ What the fuck?

And now, I've been sent down to the concourse à la _Pretty Woman_ with cryptic instructions to get something tasteful and elegant. Pretentious asshole. I glance at my new _Payless_ pumps, which he may as well have laughed at. My version of tasteful and elegant is clearly much different than his.

The binder slips beneath my sweaty palms, and I adjust it as the elevator stops and dings, opening to the upscale stores of the concourse. Despite having worked here for over a year, I have yet to step foot in any of them.

Clutching my bible against my chest, I take a tentative step out of the elevator. The concourse is busy, with smartly dressed people filing in and out stores, designer bags swinging happily from their hands.

I make my way from the elevator, trying not to look too conspicuous. The truth of the matter is I couldn't be more out of place if I tried, wandering down the marble inlayed floors in my generic, black uniform, staring up at the designer signs that adorn the shops.

I stop outside of _Louis Vuitton_. The display in the window is stunning. Patent leather monogrammed bags, mounted beside perfectly tailored suits set against a clean, crisp white and silver backdrop. The security guard stationed at the door lifts an eyebrow to me, silently asking what the fuck someone like me is doing in front of _Louis Vuitton_.

I nod my head, agreeing with him. _Move along, Bella. Gucci _or _Prada. _Mr. Sure-of-Himself said _Gucci _or _Prada._ The concourse seems to go on for miles. You would think stores like these would have a more prominent location. I'm about to give up and try my luck at one of the other stores, when I see the gold letters popping from the slate background at the corner of the concourse.

_Gucci._

Taking a deep breath, I wander into the store. The security guard briefly acknowledges my existence and then turns back to people watching. There are more women milling about than I would expect inside. My eyes dart to the handbags that look more like museum pieces than anything else. I keep walking. Handbags, however enticing, aren't required for the _Twilight Room._

I find the woman's section at the back of the store and scan the dresses. None of these look appropriate. I'm not going to the Oscars, here. These are all gowns. What the fuck did he mean by tasteful and elegant? Why didn't I ask him more questions? Right, you were trying not to pass out.

"Can I help you find something?" A statuesque blonde smiles warmly at me. She is, of course, impeccably dressed in a form fitting steel blue sheath dress with black expensive looking boots that end just below her knee, her hair pulled into an elaborate twist.

"I hope so. I need something for… an event."

She cocks her head to the side. "What kind of an event?"

Oh, you know, just a casual a poker game, maybe some blackjack where several million dollars may exchange hands. _Focus, Bella!_ I decide on the truth. "I'm actually working in a VIP room tonight."

Her eyes widen for a moment, and then she nods her head. "And what kind of budget are we looking at?" she asks.

_Shit!_ He never said how much I could spend. My eyes dart from the blonde to the rack of gowns. "I don't know." One perfect eyebrow rises. "Mr. Cullen said just to put it on his account."

"Oh. I see." Her warm welcome vanishes, replaced by an icy stare. "I'll need to call up and verify. Your name?" she barks.

I give her my name, and she moves behind the opulent desk that houses the cash register. I set my binder down on the white, overstuffed couch in the middle of the room and start to scan the rack in front of me, trying not to listen as the blonde bombshell whispers into the phone. He said he would call down. How much more embarrassing can this get?

There are no price tags on any of these gowns, and my heart starts to race. If you have to ask, you can't afford it. _Yes, but I'm sure he can. _This feels so surreal. I'm so far out of my comfort zone, it's frightening, and these clothes… they have to cost a small fortune. Why does anyone want to wear _Gucci_? Give me my sweats, and my gray _U of N_ hoodie, and I'm happy.

"Everything seems to be in order." The blonde's acidic voice stirs me back to reality… or whatever this is, right now. "Did you want a suit or a dress?"

"Um, well…maybe something like this?" I pull out a simple black, tailored pant suit. It looks elegant enough to me, and not unlike what I have on, right now. Maybe this isn't the right choice. I have no fucking idea what I'm doing.

"A dress would be better. A suit would require a lot of tailoring, given how short you are," she says pointedly, her scowl hardening. Her eyes sweep down me incredulously, and I wonder what the fuck I did to offend her.

Without hesitating, she breezes by me and yanks out a black asymmetrical dress from further down the rack, holding it up in front of her. It gathers at the waist and probably ends just above the knee. It's stunning, and I feel my mouth fall open. "Try this," she commands, turning on her heel and moving to the fitting rooms.

I pick up my binder from the couch and follow along behind her. The floor that leads to the fitting rooms is embossed with the _Gucci_ logo, the walls lined with floor to ceiling mirrors, the ceiling housing muted track lighting.

A cream coloured love seat sits at the front of the fitting room area. On it sits an older looking man with thinning grey hair, lounging back, immaculately dressed, sunglasses covering his eyes as he plays with his _BlackBerry_. I wonder what he's doing here.

As the ice queen opens up a large fitting room door, another opens, with a tall, thin, extremely tanned brunette, practically skipping out of it on her way to the man on the love seat.

I watch as she completes a full circle in a miniscule, skin tight green dress in front of the man. "I like this one," she says happily. The man sits up, adjusting his glasses, a creepy smile playing over his face. She's probably at least twenty-five years younger than he is. I feel a full body shiver as he smirks, nodding his head, and then waves her back to the fitting room while she giggles with excitement.

The cranky sales woman clears her throat as she stands beside the open door to the fitting room. I make my way inside, shutting the door. Placing the binder on the cream stool in the corner, I remove my jacket and my skirt robotically, stepping out of my new pumps. My feet breathe a sigh of relief, and I scowl, realizing that Cullen was right. My feet _are_ killing me.

I remove my cream blouse, setting it on the stool, and lift the expensive dress from the hanger. I'm almost afraid to touch it. I lower the zipper in the back, sliding it over my head and sighing as the fabric skims over my skin. It feels like heaven, like nothing I've ever had on my body before. This is why people want to wear _Gucci_.

I struggle with the zipper, but manage to do it up enough to get the general idea. I turn to the mirror and take an audible gasp in. _Holy shit_ ,this dress is tight, practically showing off everything I own.

I lower the cream bra strap on my exposed shoulder. I'd need to get a new bra, something strapless, probably costing more than the usual cotton ones I splurge on at _Victoria's Secret_ when they have their semi-annual sale.

I turn around and strain my head to see the back. There's no way in hell I can wear this. Its way too sexy for what this job entails. Perhaps if I was just visiting the _Twilight Room_, then maybe. _You'll never be just visiting the Twilight Room, Bella._

No. I won't. I shake my head, lowering the zipper, pulling the dress off and placing it back on the hanger. I smooth it down and get dressed back in my generic uniform quickly, listening as the brunette in fitting room number one squeals, no doubt from some other skin tight dress she loves.

I grab my binder and open the door, making my way back into the store, looking for the nasty sales woman. She's otherwise occupied with another paying customer and ignores me as I place the dress back on the rack. I'd rather not buy anything from her, anyway.

I leave the store with my head held high. The security guard doesn't bat an eye at me. _Prada_ it is.

_WC_

My _Prada_ experience is significantly better than my _Gucci _one. Once I find the store, I am met by an extremely helpful, young sales woman who shows no signs of crazy mood swings.

After trying on a few dresses that she selects, I settle on a knee length, black, V-neck, light weight one with tucked and knotted detailing in the bodice. It's my version of elegant. Nothing skin tight or revealing, and no new ultra expensive strapless bra required.

The sales woman makes casual conversion as she runs the dress through _his _account. No raised eyebrow, no accusatory glares, it's actually been enjoyable.

The dress costs eight hundred and twenty-five dollars. I'm sure I gasp as I see the number on the computer screen flash, and my momentary enjoyment vanishes. I've never spent eight hundred and twenty-five dollars on a single item of clothing in my life. Well, I guess _I'm_ not really spending it. I feel a wave of nausea roll over me. I'm going to have to pay him back for this. It doesn't feel right, spending someone else's money this way for a silly job.

With my ridiculously high priced dress tucked safely away in a _Prada_ labeled garment bag, I leave the store, eyeing the tempting handbags on my way out.

I'm on my way back to reception, my feet complaining, a harsh reminder that I need shoes. And there, encased in cream swirling marble, with black simple letters, is _Manolo Blahnik._ I've seen enough _Sex and the City_ to know if I want shoes, this is where I need to go.

The shoes cost almost as much as the dress, which seems ridiculous to me, and I'm skeptical they can be any more comfortable than my _Payless_ ones, but they are. They're black and simple, fitting as if they were made for me. The same wave of nausea is back when they are added to Cullen's account.

With the purchases that cost more than my paycheck in my hands, I make my way back to reception. Emily gives me a run down of what's transpired since ,I've been thrown into an alternate universe. Thankfully, there have been no emergencies. _Everything's normal_ were her exact words. Right… normal. It's all a matter of perspective, according to Cullen.

I spend the next hour trying to commit the contents of the binder to memory. Time is running out as we inch closer to five o'clock where I will be "collected," according to him, much like the garbage, or those tacky snow globes you pick up when you're on vacation.

I find myself unconsciously twirling the pen through my fingers, trying to mimic his distracting fondling of that damn five thousand dollar plaque. The pen drops several times in my attempts. _How did he do that? _Why did I find it such a fucking turn on?

Of course it's a turn on; the man is beautiful. Unfortunately, he knows it, and I'm sure that performance this afternoon was just the tip of the iceberg. Tonight, he'll be in fine form, I'm sure, posturing and parading around like he owns the place. _He does own the place!_

Holy fuck, what am I doing? I run my fingers through my hair, pushing a strand behind my ear and try to focus.

The fact that Edward Cullen is beautiful and sexy as hell is irrelevant. I have a job to do and a point to prove. I can handle this room in all its legendary glory. Yes… it's all a matter of perspective.

_WC_

"Can you just go over doubling down, again?" I ask as Harry smiles at me from behind the blackjack table. We've been going over the "finer points" of poker and blackjack as Cullen requested for the last two hours, and it's all starting to blur.

"You're going to do fine, Bella," Harry says.

I furrow my brow. "But Mr. Cullen said—"

He chuckles, shaking his head, leaning forward. "I'll let you in on a secret," he whispers. "Mr. Cullen can get a little crazy about this place. You don't need to be an expert blackjack or poker player; trust me."

I like Harry. He's calming my rattling nerves and reminds me of Charlie; loyal to the core and clearly a heart of gold. He has worked at _The Oasis_ for over twenty-five years. The man could probably write a book about what he has seen and experienced. He's a fountain of knowledge and he knows this business and this room, very well.

"At the end of the day, they're all just people. Don't let the fancy watches fool you."

I try to take comfort in his words of wisdom as he deals another hand.

_WC_

An almost unrecognizable reflection stares back at me in the lavish mirror of the woman's bathroom. My hair, pulled back into a low ponytail, the _Prada_ dress falling effortlessly to my knees, and the shoes… he was right, they're comfortable, not that I'd admit that to him.

I contemplate putting on actual makeup for the first time in months and decide against it. I'm already nervous enough, and trying to figure out how to do the smoky eye is not going to help matters. Lip gloss and a quick powder cover it is. _You look pretty damn good, Swan._

So does the rest of the team, all dressed in stylized black trousers for the men, a-line skirts for the women with varying shades of crisp, rich, burgundy shirts that mirror the colour of the tables. This is definitely a step up from the boring black and cream of the reception area.

I am amazed at the experience the team that works this room has. Most are seasoned veterans, having worked in Vegas for years. I'm greeted warmly, with the exception of Kate, a skilled server with a bigger chip on her shoulder than the _Gucci_ saleswoman had. There's always one, I suppose.

She questions me at every turn as we ready the room for ten o'clock, frequently flicking her long blonde hair back and issuing me a death stare. Jessica, one of the other servers, rolls her eyes at me and shakes her head, as if this is normal behaviour for Kate.

"Just ignore her. We all do," Jessica says, squeezing my arm in reassurance.

Seth, the distractingly good looking bartender nods his head in agreement. "She's just pissed they didn't pick her to take over from Angela." Well, that would explain it, then.

As we inch closer to ten, the air in the room takes on a dramatically different feel. The laughter fades, Seth's playful banter stops. The dealers stand at attention, their hands clasped behind their back. It's all serious all of a sudden. I suppose when you're here to wager a small fortune, it needs to be.

I've done a pretty good job up until now, managing the ever growing anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach. Having to decide on appetizers, the critical placement of chairs around the bar, and managing Kate's attitude has been a welcome distraction. But now, this is it.

I stare at the thick and imposing cherry wood door, wondering what's lurking out there. Not only do we have Peter stationed outside, but somewhere between our discussion on shrimp cocktails and Seth inviting us all to his apartment for a party on the weekend, two more hulking security guards have materialized and flank the doors. What do they think is going to happen in here?

I station myself at the door, not knowing if I should or not. Should I be invisible, as well? Do they expect to be greeted? They must. I should have asked more questions. My panic is halted as the door clicks open. It's close to ten-thirty… they're fashionably late, of course.

One by one, I greet them as they arrive sporadically over the next hour, explaining Angela's absence to the ones who bother to ask. Most of them are genuinely concerned about her, which I'm not going to lie is shocking.

A few of them recognize me from the reception desk, nodding apparently in scrutinized approval, their eyes raking down the _Prada_ dress as I try my best not to flinch. _Yeah, I wear this everyday._

They are all flawlessly dressed; smart suits, flowing gowns, tight skirts, enough jewelry to feed a small country. It's staggering the amount of the wealth that these people have. You can almost smell it. There is an air about them, a sense of entitlement, it's daunting to navigate, and I find myself over thinking every single thing I say, not wanting to inadvertently offend them.

I move them to the bar area, take expensive shawls from wives or mistresses, I'm not exactly sure which in some cases, storing them out of sight in the coat room behind one of the frosted partitions.

Mini discussion groups start up between the players, reminiscent of cliques in high school. Backs are slapped and tumblers full of bronze liquid are clinked together, the ice rattling around as they get reacquainted with each other. It's all very civilized, the tension in the air mounting as the dealers start to shuffle decks of cards with flourish, almost as if they're hypnotizing them to come closer.

Players select tables, sinking into expensive leather brown chairs and placing down obscene amounts of money in exchange for plaques. Blue and white backed cards flit across the burgundy tables as I signal for drinks to be refilled. The team falls into a coordinated rhythm. It's like a well oiled machine as they attend to both the players and their guests. See? I _can _do this.

And then, Jane Sampson arrives dramatically, her jet black hair slicked back into an extreme ponytail, her eyebrow cocked as she steps foot into the room. An extremely young boy-toy trails along behind her, looking petrified as soon as he takes his eyes off of her plastic ass that seems to have been literally poured into a floor length, form fitting, red halter dress. She scares the hell out of me.

Every head in the room turns to the door as I scramble down from the bar to meet her. She cocks her head to the side, clearly confused. "And you would be?" she asks.

"Bella," I say, my voice faint as I try not to stare at her plastically enhanced face. Why do people do this to themselves?

"Just Bella?"

"Swan… Bella Swan. Angela is in the hospital, so I'm filling in for her," I ramble. As if she cares.

She takes a deep breath, judging me, studying me, deciding if I'm worthy. "Which table do you suggest, _Bella_?" She accentuates my name bitterly almost, waiting impatiently.

Fuck! Which table? How the hell do I know? I look up to the raised tables, scanning them quickly, my eyes falling to James Miller, whose heated leer I've almost gotten used to over the last hour. _Almost_.

He's a man of few words, his fiery red-headed companion a polar opposite, currently giggling and holding court with three men around the fire place as she sips on **her fifth gin and tonic of the night. **

"I would say this one." I motion to James' table as the corners of her collagen enhanced mouth curl up.

"An interesting choice," she murmurs, her eyes locking onto James'. "Come, Paul." She glides across the floor, stepping up to the blackjack table with Paul, following along like a dutifully trained dog.

I watch in amazement as he pulls out her chair, and she sinks down into it, waving him off when he hovers beside her. _They don't like hovering._ Cullen's words come crashing back to me as Paul makes a hasty retreat to the bar.

Speaking of Cullen, where the hell is he? All sixteen players are already deeply entrenched; cream, dark blue, and blood red plaques clicking between them, and he's nowhere to be seen.

I move back to the bar area. Victoria and her court jesters look bored. Clearly, the alcohol is wearing off. Time for food.

Back in the kitchen, Kate is hoisting a silver tray with appetizers from the oak prep table. She rolls her eyes when she sees me. "I think they're starting to get restless out there," I offer, hoping to crack her iron clad exterior.

"No kidding. They were starting to get restless a while ago," she snaps, brushing by me. "You would have seen that if you weren't so busy flirting with Seth." What the fuck? I haven't been flirting with Seth. I've been dealing with ridiculous drink requests for the past hour. My blood boils as she dawns a fake smile before moving to the bar area. I watch as she lowers the appetizer tray, lingering a little too long for their or my liking. Kate doesn't do subtle very well.

She giggles and laughs with Paul, louder than she needs to, causing Jane to take her eyes off the table, leveling her a glare that she doesn't even seem to notice. This is not good. It was all going so well. Too well. Cullen's words rattle around in my head. _The servers should be invisible._ Right now, Kate is the center of attention in front of the bar.

Jessica turns to me pointedly from the bar, her eyes widening, darting to Kate in a silent exchange. I have to do something about this. I move to Kate, stopping beside her as she throws her head back and laughs, well, cackles is more like it. "Would you mind helping me in the kitchen?" I ask as discreetly as I can, her eyes hardening at my intrusion.

"Of course," she says snidely. I smile at Paul and Victoria as Jessica intervenes, quietly offering them a refill on their cocktails.

She follows along behind me, slamming the tray down on the counter once the door to the kitchen is shut. "What do you want? I'm trying to earn tips out there."

"You're making a scene out there."

Her eyes narrow further. "What the hell do you know about any of this? You've been here all of what, a nanosecond, and all of a sudden you know everything?" she barks.

"Keep your voice down," I practically hiss. "I'm pretty sure Mrs. Sampson doesn't want you flirting with her guest."

"Mrs. Sampson is a dried up old prune," she rants.

"She may very well be, but while she's in this room, you will treat her and everyone else in here with respect, and that does not mean throwing yourself at the first warm blooded male who pays you some attention."

"You've got a lot of nerve. Who do you think you are?" she seethes.

I pull out the Swan glare. "I think I'm in charge of this room, at least for tonight, and if I see one more stunt like that, I'll have you removed."

"You wouldn't dare," she growls.

"Try me," I fire back at her. Her mouth gapes open at my words. I find it hard not to let mine do the same. I've never had a confrontation like this, and I hope to never again. The adrenaline spikes as we stand in stare down mode, until finally, she breaks the stare, a silent surrender.

She moves to a fresh tray of appetizers, lifts it above her head, and without another word, leaves the kitchen. I stand for a moment, watching the door as it closes, hoping I haven't just made an enemy.

I don't do conflict well. I'm usually the middle ground, the voice of sanity, the one always helping out. This feels foreign, and quite frankly, more than I bargained for. I don't know how Angela does this. It's overwhelming; the quirky demands, running the staff, dealing with egos that seem to grow by the minute. But there's no time for me to have a mini meltdown, I need to get back out there.

Taking a deep breath, I push open the kitchen door and make my way back to the room, my heart stopping as I see him. He's standing at one of the poker tables, laughing quietly with Riley Biers as they share some inside joke.

He turns his head from the table, scanning the room, burning green eyes finding mine. The corners of his mouth turn up… he nods his head and quirks an eyebrow as my heart hammers. Apparently, he approves of the way his money was spent this afternoon. _Get a hold of yourself, Bella_!

He's changed from the light grey suit. This one is dark midnight blue, perfectly cut and accentuating his lean frame, his hair slightly more tamed then it was early today. He stops short of issuing me a full blown smile, his eyes moving back to the table.

He is clearly in his element, working the room, stopping at each of the tables, spending time with the elite. I can't look away. He is in complete command, radiating confidence. It's a massive turn on.

I feel Jessica nudge my arm, huffing beside me. I didn't even see her standing here.

"Don't waste your time. None of us are good enough for him," she whispers, turning on her heel for the kitchen.

"I wasn't going to," I mumble. _Just keep telling yourself that. _

My eyes move from Cullen to James and his almost empty drink. I motion to Seth, my mind fuzzy on the type of scotch he drinks… McFadden, McCullen… I almost snort at my slip. Seth stops in front of me as I try to calm down. "Glass of Macallan, Seth. Neat."

He nods, slipping back down the bar as I lean against it, my fingers gripping the smooth, rounded marble edge.

"Drinking on the job, Miss Swan?" Cullen's warm, thick voice lands in places I know it shouldn't. I can feel him behind me. He's closer than he should be. Close enough to smell, to feel, to touch. "You look lovely."

He moves beside me, leaning against the bar, and I make the mistake of looking up at him. His eyes intense, amused, fucking mesmerizing.

"Yeah, well, _Prada_ will do that for you," I say in an amazing moment of boldness. This room, my encounter with Kate, the six hundred dollar shoes on my feet; it all has me feeling brave.

He leans down, his lips close to my ear, his breath on my shoulder, he smells intoxicating. It's all I can do not to pass out. "Prada doesn't have anything to do with it."

Chapter end notes:

Yes-The Gucci fitting room experience, complete with a Sugar Daddy. I've witnessed it, first hand. Really quite something.

Thoughts?

CarLemon


	5. Chapter 5

All characterizations, plot lines, backgrounds and details belong to the author. Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight.

_Thanks as always, to my beta the incredible __xrxdanixrx. Check out her new story Washed Up. XO BB _

_A million thanks to my dear friend MizzezPattinson who pre-reads this story. Much love, hun. I couldn't do it without you. XO_

Let's see how the rest of the night goes, shall we?

Come, join me.

_"Gambling is my drug of choice. We all have our demons."-Compulsive gambler_

_**Edward**_

Chapter 5

Her fuckable mouth drops open just enough to tempt me before she shakes off my words.

"James Miller's drink is almost empty," I remark, wondering how far I can push her, and me. I know that she's putting on a good show. Like the creep I am, I've been watching. This is, after all, my VIP room, and I'm entitled to know what goes on in here.

Unfortunately, I realize how weak that rationalization is. I know it's wrong and extremely dangerous on a multitude of levels to be watching a specific employee… this specific employee… but right now, I don't really care. This woman has piqued my interest, probably because she seems genuine, honest, and in complete contrast to the women I usually meet.

Everything from her telling me she didn't think she was the right person for the job, to her being embarrassed almost at the thought of me offering to pay for appropriate clothes has been refreshing. Most women would have taken that offer and been overjoyed at the thought, more than happy to spend the money. She seemed reluctant, to say the least.

She's also been almost flawless up to this point, which is quiet honestly surprising, given my original assessment. She's even managed to keep Kate in line. I think I underestimated Bella Swan.

She nods, twisting to the poker table where James is playing. He's been losing for the past half an hour, which amuses me greatly. His drink, however, is almost empty, which doesn't bode well.

"Best get it to him before this hand is over," I murmur, watching as Jane smiles wickedly at the cards in front of her. She's never been good at masking her emotions. Her face is an open book, and James knows he's about to lose yet another hand.

"Here you go, Bella," Seth says, setting a glass on the tray at the bar in front of her and lingering a little longer than he should. Yes, I've been watching him, too. He has been entirely too attentive to her this evening, and I don't like it.

He glances at me, and I raise an eyebrow. He retreats instantly, wisely moving to the opposite side of the bar. "Off you go," I mumble, nodding my head towards James.

She levels me a questioning look that I find equally amusing and sexy, and then retrieves the tray, marching with purpose to the table. I enjoy the view… much more than I should. Her hair pulled back into a low ponytail, revealing her long neck, her creamy skin against the black dress that fits like a glove, her firm legs and how I'd like to feel them wrapped around me.

I turn back to the bar. I need to stop this shit. Maybe Emmett is right. Maybe I do need more in my life. Clearly, the company I've been keeping isn't holding my interest. I haven't had an actual girlfriend in years, a fact that I've thoroughly enjoyed, until now.

It's hard for me to find a woman who is interested in anything but the money and the lifestyle. The last girlfriend- if you want to even classify her like that- lasted a total of three weeks before it became obvious where her true interests were. She wanted to hang off my arm and revel in the spotlight. She wanted people to wait on her and felt she was entitled to a certain type of treatment simply because she was fucking me.

And that's the problem. I've never really had an emotional attachment to a woman. It's always been just a means to an end. The last five years of my life have revolved around the casino and proving to myself, to my family, and the industry that I'm actually worthy of running _Oasis_ and am not just here because I happen to be Carlisle's son.

It's been an uphill battle. Sure, both Emmett and I did our time on the floor, in the pit, at the tables, fuck, we even managed some of the shows, but there was a perception when Carlisle retired that neither one of us were ready to take on the challenges and pressures associated with this business.

So, we both dove in head first, no looking back, taking no prisoners, working more hours in a day than any person in their right mind really should. It's easy to see why Dad had a heart attack. This business, this life, isn't for the faint of heart.

We had a point to prove, and we sure as fuck proved it, multiple times over. Success has come at a personal price for me. The fact that I'm thirty-five years old and still fucking women without even giving a shit if I see them again is really kind of sad.

Emmett got extremely lucky meeting Rose at that charity event. He's happy, and it's only a matter of time before they're married and popping out kids. And here I stand, realizing the more successful we get, the less likely it is for me to actually find that, if that's what I want. Fuck, I don't even know what I want anymore.

"Mr. Cullen?" I turn in the direction of the female voice behind me that snaps me out of feeling sorry for myself. The ever eager Kate. If she didn't work in this room, I wouldn't even know who she is. She eye-fucks me briefly before remembering how to speak. "Can I get you a drink?"

I chuckle at her. If I wanted a drink, I'd just get one myself. "No. Thank you. Though I think Mr. Biers is in need of one." I nod in the direction of Riley's table. He's smirking, his fingers circling the rim of his almost empty highball glass repeatedly. Riley is on a winning streak.

Kate flusters, waving down Seth and ordering a refill of bourbon and water. At least she knows what drink he likes. I try to ignore her, listening as Seth mixes the drink behind me while I watch Bella at James' table.

James' mood has shifted considerably, aided no doubt by the fact that Bella is still standing beside him, her hand on the back of his chair. _What the fuck is she doing?_ The reality is she's not doing anything wrong. She is, in fact, doing exactly what I told her to.

Still, anger or something equally dangerous courses through me as I watch James take his eyes off his cards and stare at her, motioning for her to lean closer to him. I can't remember the last time I felt this way… _if _I've felt this way. I don't like how he's looking at her. If it was Kate or someone else, I wouldn't give a shit.

He whispers something to her, and she nods her head before moving quickly back to the bar. Kate breezes past her without acknowledgement, heading to Riley's table with his drink.

Bella bites down on her lip, seemingly in frustration as her cheeks flame. "God, he's an asshole," she mumbles, clearly flustered.

My blood boils at her words, at what he could have said to upset her. "What did he say to you?" I practically hiss. I'm not below kicking him out of here, high roller or not. It is my room, after all.

"He wants me to bring him the bottle of scotch. He doesn't think it's Macallan's," she grumbles, waving Seth down.

My eyes dart to James' table, his focus now back where it should be, on the cards in front of him and not leering at my staff. _Kind of like you were? _I wasn't leering, I was… admiring. _Right… keep telling yourself that._

"I'll take it to him," I practically bark.

Her eyes widen at my tone, and then she narrows them at me. "I would actually prefer it if you didn't," she says boldly, her defiance landing firmly in my dick.

"And why would that be?"

"My credibility kind of gets shot if my boss does everything for me, don't you think?" She lifts an eyebrow to me. It's fucking hot as hell. She's standing up to me, taking control of the situation. This is new. Most people wouldn't dare question me at work. I like it… I like it a lot more than I know I should.

"Well, by all means, be my guest." I motion to the Macallan's bottle that Seth has set on the bar.

She sets the bottle on the tray, promptly marching back to James' table with determination. Yes, I definitely underestimated Bella Swan.

_WC_

The rest of the evening drones on without incident. It would actually be excruciatingly boring if it weren't for the fact that I get to enjoy discreetly watching Bella as she works the room.

Watching her on a monitor isn't nearly as interesting as seeing her in front of me in the flesh. However, she seems intent not to make eye contact with me, almost as if she's deliberately avoiding me.

I've kept myself busy, discussing mundane business ventures, commenting on the weather, and committing to golf later in the week with Aro Thompson, retired founder of Thompson Oil, who now lives for three things; golf, women under the age of thirty, and the Twilight Room.

A terminal bachelor, he is destined to live out his retirement alone. His bed is warmed by a revolving door of women, and while that sounds like one hell of a way to live your life, it is in reality, kind of pathetic.

As I sit and talk with Aro, who is extremely pleased with his one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars in winnings, I see a lot of myself in him. He was thrown into the business at an early age and is known for his ruthless business tactics. I admire his drive and persistence. But as his twenty-something mistress for the night runs her hand down his tailored black Armani suit, I feel nauseous. I don't want to be sixty with a twenty year old hanging off my arm. The thought is actually repulsive.

It's almost two in the morning when Aro leaves smugly and with the usual fanfare. Bella fetches his arm candy's shawl from the coat check room, calling down to the lobby to ensure his car is out front.

I watch her stealthily, thinking about her description this afternoon of a _glorified waitress_. I dismissed the analogy at the time, but now I wonder if that was closer to the truth than I would like to admit. Still, I need somebody competent to manage this shit; although, I'm starting to think her talents could be put to better use elsewhere. _Get your mind out of the gutter, Cullen._

"Edward, darling." Jane's arctic voice ends that thought immediately as she glides her way to the door, her barely legal distraction for the moment following along dutifully. I wonder where she picked this one up, though in Vegas, it's not hard to find extremely willing participants. When you're desperate, you'll do just about anything.

"Jane." She gives me the customary kiss on each cheek, a ritual that she tells me she picked up from the last three summers she spent in France. She smells like vodka and entirely too much expensive perfume. Jane doesn't do understated. Everything about her is over the top.

"Somehow, you even manage to make losing enjoyable," she purrs as Bella passes her expensive wrap to the boy who carefully covers her shoulders with it.

"Perhaps your luck will be better next time." I offer only mild condolences. Her loss is our gain.

She shrugs her shoulders. "Hmm," she mutters. "Come, Paul." She hooks her finger to him while Bella ushers them to the door.

As Paul fusses over her, I wonder idly what happened to get him to this point. What demon is he chasing or running from? I actually feel sorry for him. His soul is already teetering on the edge, waiting to be sucked into the vortex that is Vegas.

Once they disappear for the night, I turn back to the lone table where only Riley and James remain, deadlocked in a poker game that neither one of them want to fold on.

The room is almost empty, Bella having sent home most of the staff with the exception of Seth, who is on standby in case another bottle of Macallan's is required.

James' red-headed mistress looks exceptionally bored and ready to leave, while Riley's entertainment for the evening incessantly natters away to her.

Bella returns from the hallway, her hand covering her mouth as she fights back a yawn.

"Are we keeping you up, Miss Swan?"

"Sorry about that. How long does this go on?" she asks quietly, stopping beside me, my entire body hyper aware of how close she is.

"Until they're done."

"Which could be…?" she prompts.

"Depends. Sometimes it goes on well into the morning." She scrunches her cute nose up. "Don't worry; Riley's losing for a change. I'm sure it won't be long."

"I thought he was like a shark or something," she says, eyeing the table curiously.

I chuckle at her. She's been clearly researching; she probably Googled poker terms at some point during the day when I wasn't watching. So eager to impress. I wonder how that would translate to the bedroom. _Jesus Christ, I need to get laid._

I lower my mouth to her ear, smiling as she takes a quick breath in. "Riley usually does quite well, but even the worst players get lucky sometimes. That's what keeps them all coming back."

She turns her head, her eyes widening at my words. "So, James isn't a good player?"

"He's impulsive and impatient. Two things that generally don't work in your favour when you're playing poker," I explain, my eyes lingering on her exposed shoulder. This dress is perfect for her; understated and elegant. I wouldn't mind seeing it in a heap on the floor in my bedroom.

"But they are working for him tonight?"

"Yes… they are tonight."

She hums, cocking her head to the side as she watches the hand play out, which right now, I couldn't give a shit about. I've never wanted a round of poker to end so badly in my life. The end of the game means the end of the night, which means I finally get more time alone with her.

"Quads… nicely done, James." Riley's voice echoes through the room as I tear my eyes away from Bella to the table.

Riley stands, reaching across the table and shaking James' hand firmly. "Until next time," Riley says, while James smirks, trying extremely hard to rein in his euphoria. "Harry, always a pleasure." Riley drops a plaque on the table in front of Harry, who nods politely, gathering the cards methodically.

Riley holds his arm out to his now sullen looking fuck for the night. She scampers to him, wrapping her arm around his waist. He keeps his head held high as they step down to the hardwood floor and make their way to me.

Riley comes from money. His grandfather started _Biers Investments_ half a century ago. It's one of the most successful firms in the country, and now, Riley is biding his time until his father retires and he can take over the reins, something he is anxiously looking forward to.

He's done his time trading on the floor, handling multi-million dollar accounts, kissing ass where you have to. I think he lives for the day when he can walk into a room and finally state he is a CEO.

He is a seasoned professional and typically the best poker player in the room. His loss tonight is unusual, and I'm sure it's not sitting well with him; not that he would ever admit it.

Still, whether he wins or loses, one thing is certain… he will be back. They always come back.

"Edward." He holds his hand out, and I shake it firmly. "Not my night tonight."

"I hope you enjoyed the evening, regardless," I reply.

He nods at me. "I always do." He cranes his neck around me to the coat check room.

"I'm also enjoying Angela's replacement." I feel my jaw clench at his words. "Where have you been hiding her?" he asks quietly.

"Bella has been with us for a while."

He hums. "Hmmm. I'll bet she has."

I turn my attention to the mini Barbie beside him. "I haven't had the pleasure of meeting your guest, Riley." She's your typical Vegas girl… tight dress, tighter body, a shit load of make-up on, and probably not a neuron firing in her pretty little head.

"Oh, yes. This is Brianna," he says, finally remembering the fact that she's beside him.

"You can call me Bree," she says happily. _Of course I can._

"Bree. How lovely to meet you."

She blinks up at me.

"Bree, Edward Cullen. This is his casino," Riley explains.

Her eyes widen. "Like the whole thing?" Her high pitched voice rises impossibly higher.

Riley shakes his head at her, looking annoyed. "Yes."

"Wow! My roommate has tried out to be a showgirl like eight times here," she blathers.

"Here you go." Bella's voice ends Bree's attempt at a conversation as she hands her a shawl.

"Thank you, Bella," Riley says, his hand intentionally brushing over hers as he lifts the shawl and passes it to Bree, his eyes never leaving Bella's. "Will you be here on Thursday, as well?"

Bella looks at me questioningly, and I nod. "Yes. I'll be here," she says, her lips curving into a satisfied smile.

"Good." He holds his arm out in Bree's general direction, and she attaches herself to it like the leech she is. "Until Thursday, then. Edward." He nods to me and Bella escorts him to the door while I try to get a handle on the foreign feeling coursing through me. I shouldn't give a shit about the way he looked at her, but I don't like it.

"So, I finally win something to talk about in Edward Cullen's casino." James' voice brings me back to reality.

"You've won plenty in my casino, James." I hold my hand out, and he grips it, shaking it solidly.

"Yeah, but this feels so much better than winning down there." He says the words as if the casino floor is now somehow beneath him. Trust me; he's spent hours and hundreds of thousands of dollars in there. While this is only his second time in the room, he's been coming to the casino for the last two years, at least three times a week.

He started out like most of them do; an innocent trip to the casino with a group of friends. You wander in, pull a few levers, you try your luck at blackjack, you drink, you lose a couple of hundred dollars, and you leave.

Then, something brings you back; the adrenaline, the draw, the pulsing lights, the belief that next time, it will be different. Maybe next time, you break even, or if lady luck is shining, you might even win a bit.

James won fifteen thousand dollars his next time. He made more in a couple of hours than he could make in four months, working construction for the good city of Las Vegas.

He had a job; an honest, hard working, get your hands dirty job. But given the right mix of excitement, want, and greed, it doesn't take long before your real job, your real life, becomes a fading memory.

Suddenly, those minimum payments you were making on your credit card bills are obliterated in a single night. You feel relief, you can get ahead, and if you just come back one more time, you can win big. You've convinced yourself. The logic, the truth that in the end, the house always wins is irrelevant. And now, it's too late to turn back. You're hooked, and James most definitely is.

He's gotten lucky tonight. Extremely lucky. James is not a good player. He's erratic and usually makes impulsive decisions, letting his emotions rule in a game where it pays to be calm and patient.

"I think I'm going to enjoy your little room, Edward," he says as Victoria practically jumps up and down beside him with excitement over his win.

"I hope you do." I nod my head to Laurent, a signal that he needs to leave his post at the door. "Laurent can escort you from the cage to your car, if you like. You're leaving with quite the take tonight."

I know James will be all over this. He'll get his substantial cheque from the private cage in the room and then take the walk through the lobby where I'm sure he'll make it known just how much he won tonight. It's his shining moment, and he'll want to make the most of it.

His eyes light up at the thought. "That would be great," he says, trying to sound all cool and like he doesn't give a shit.

Bella appears beside me with an obnoxious white fur wrap, handing it to Victoria. She sticks her nose in the air and takes it from Bella, wrapping it around her shoulders.

"I'm bored, James. Can we go?" she asks, sliding her hand up his arm.

"Yeah, sure, babe." He holds his hand out again, and I shake it. "Until next time, when I take some more of your money."

"I look forward to it." I squeeze his hand tighter, a silent message that next time, I hope he won't be so lucky.

_WC_

"Thank you, Harry. Good job tonight," I say, clapping him on the back as he gets ready to leave.

"An interesting night, sir," he replies. "I can't believe James won against Riley."

"He got lucky."

He nods. "You've got that right," he says. "Are you inviting him back on Thursday?"

"Of course I am. I want my money back."

Harry laughs, and we say our goodnights. I'm thankful for Harry and his wealth of experience. He knows this town extremely well, and I can always count on him to help make the players feel at ease.

I move back to the bar, sitting down on a stool while I wait for Bella to finish getting changed. Seth has finished his OCD bar clean up and finally moves out from behind it.

"You don't have to wait for Bella. I can make sure she gets home," he says brazenly. I'm sure he'd love nothing more than to take her home.

"That's okay, Seth. We have some business related matters to discuss." I level him a look that instantly makes him nervous.

He darts his eyes to the door and then back to me. "Okay, see you Thursday, Mr. Cullen," he mumbles.

"Have a good evening."

I watch him tuck his tail between his legs and scurry to the door, leaving me finally alone in the room with Bella. I turn back to the bar, studying the liquor bottles that line the glassed wall.

I know this is dangerous. I shouldn't be sitting here waiting for an employee like some seventeen year old kid. I should have left a long time ago. But somehow, what I should be doing doesn't really matter.

"You're still here." Bella's melodic voice drifts to me, and I turn my head to see her standing in front of the employee break room, a black Prada bag draped over her arm, her hair out of the ponytail and trailing down over her shoulders.

She's changed into her standard uniform, her cheap shoes back on her feet as she holds a series of bags in her hands. She's fucking stunning, and I stare back at her speechless.

She shifts nervously, and I slip off the stool, moving slowly to her, never breaking eye contact. "I was just leaving, actually." I motion to the door, and she smiles up at me before walking to it.

I open the door for her, and she steps out, looking up at Peter and smiling. "Have a good night, Peter," she says quietly, pressing the arrow for the elevator.

"Bella. Mr. Cullen," he replies, his protective stance at the door never faltering.

I stand beside her, staring at the elevator. "Is your boyfriend picking you up?" I ask, glancing down at her as the elevator dings and opens.

"I don't have a boyfriend," she states, leveling me a stare. "Something tells me you knew that already." Her expression changes, as if she knows she's out of line, her eyes darting away quickly.

I try hard to hide my amusement of her answer. Of course I know she doesn't have a boyfriend. "No boyfriend, huh?" I hold the elevator door, and she steps in, moving into the corner.

"I don't suppose you would know what that feels like," she teases as I punch the code for the lobby.

"Miss Swan, what are you trying to say?" I lift my eyebrows to her, enjoying seeing her squirm while the elevator starts its rapid descent.

She flushes, but keeps her eyes locked to mine. "Just that you seem to be with a different woman pretty much every time I see you."

I'm intrigued that she seems to know that not so impressive fact. "Spying on me, now?"

"No. I think that's your area of expertise," she replies dryly. She really has no idea.

"Well, at least let me walk you to your car," I offer.

"Thanks, but I don't have a car. I take the bus," she says, shrugging like that's no big deal.

I furrow my brow. "The bus?" What the hell is she doing taking the bus at this time of night, or at all, for that matter.

"Yeah, you know, the big blue and white things that go up and down the street twenty-four hours a day?" I never used to like sarcasm. I think I've just changed my mind. Normally, this kind of attitude coming from an employee would annoy the fuck out of me, but I can't deny the fact that coming from her, it's a massive turn on. It's completely opposite to the normal reactions I typically get from women.

Usually, they're like little lost puppy dogs, hanging off my every word and eager to please. Unfortunately, that means any attempt for me to have a meaningful conversation goes nowhere.

"At this time of night?"

"I take the bus every day, so why should tonight be any different?" she asks.

"Because I know you take it, now, and I don't like it."

She takes a quick gasp in, adjusting the _Prada_ bag over her arm. "You should try it some time. Come and see how the commoners live." She flushes, looking away from me.

"The commoners?" I ask. She nods as the elevator stops and opens. Again, I hold the door and follow along behind her as she glides through the lobby. "How much is it?"

"Three dollars for each trip, unless you want to buy a monthly pass," she snarks, smiling to the night staff behind the reception desk. "Have a good night, guys." She gives a wave to whoever is behind the desk, and they do a double take when they see that I'm with her.

I vaguely register one of them wishing me a good evening, but I'm too focused on her to give a shit, not that I would, anyway.

"Three dollars, for a ride? That's highway robbery," I say while we move through the automatic doors, the hot, dry air hitting us as we step out onto the sidewalk.

"Says the man who makes his living taking other people's money," she quips.

I chuckle at her. "I have to make a living some how."

She nods, starting down the path that leads to the street, stopping at a bus sign on the corner. I come to a stop beside her, the fountains bursting to life in the man-made lake in front of the casino.

It's amazing how many people are milling around at this time of night. Limos cruise by, happy groups of tourists stumble across the street, looking for their next thrill, and it all seems like a blur, standing next to her.

She peers down the street anxiously before staring up at me. "Well, I'm sure your driver must be waiting for you," she says dismissively. _Oh, I don't think so, Miss Swan._

"That's his job."

"Waiting is his job?" she asks, quirking an eyebrow.

"Yes."

"Sounds kind of boring."

"He doesn't complain," I answer truthfully.

"Have you ever asked him?"

What is she talking about? "Asked him what?"

"If he enjoys his job?" she questions.

"He wouldn't be doing it if he didn't."

"Right, because everyone is always working at their dream job… waiting on tables, waiting on VIPs, waiting on you." I snicker at her bluntness. "I'm sorry. I know I'm being difficult. I'm just tired. It's been a long night," she mutters.

"We could always drive you home." _What the fuck are you doing? You did not just offer to drive her home._

"I don't think that's a very good idea," she states firmly.

"And why would that be?"

She cocks her head to the side. "Mr. Cullen, please don't take this the wrong way, but why are you out here at two-thirty in the morning?" she asks, flipping the tables on me.

"I'm talking to you," I muse, caught in her stare.

"All the riveting conversations happen in the middle of the night?"

"You'd be surprised."

A double-decker bus glides to the curb, gasping to a stop. "This is me," she says, fishing around awkwardly in her bag.

"Ahh, the Deuce," I murmur, narrowing my eyes at the name flashing in yellow digital neon on the top of the windshield on the bus-the bus that's about to whisk her away from me. She breezes by me, boarding the bus when the doors hiss open. No fucking way she's getting away that easily.

I hop up behind her, my body brushing up against her back while she shows the driver her pass. She whips her head back to me, her eyes widening. "What are you doing?" she asks.

"I'm taking your advice and trying the bus."

She shakes her head, unaffected by my smirk. "You're insane," she says, laughing.

"Probably."

I pull out my wallet from the breast pocket of my jacket and fish out a twenty, handing it to the driver. "No change," he mumbles.

"No change?" Why am I not in the bus business?

The unimpressed driver shakes his head while I watch Bella move down the aisle. "Look, money bags, are you coming or going? I got a schedule to keep, here," the driver grumbles.

"I'm coming." Soon… I fucking hope, and preferably with her. I drop the twenty in the plastic box and follow her down the aisle to the middle of the bus.

She plunks down in one of the seats and sighs heavily, like some massive weight has just been lifted from her. She folds the _Prada_ garment bag over her arm carefully and stares out the window, shaking her head and trying extremely hard to hide her smirk. I sit down beside her and survey the seats in front of us.

It's not bad, I suppose, as buses go, not that I've been on any. It looks relatively new, and it's clean. That's about all I can say for it. There are a couple of college kids in the seats in front of us, laughing and generally being annoying, and a balding man who looks like he hasn't seen a bed in days, slumped against the window. She shouldn't be riding this thing by herself at night.

The bus roars to life, pulling away from the Oasis and snaking down the neon strip. She sits in silence, her fingers twisting together nervously on top of the garment bag.

I turn to her, knowing I'm running out of time. I have no idea how long this bus ride takes, but it can't be that long. "I would like to meet tomorrow to discuss some changes I'd like to make to the room in time for Thursday," I blurt out.

She furrows her brow. "Changes? Did I do something wrong?" she asks nervously.

"No. You did great, actually."

"I did?"

I nod. "We can go over things tomorrow, say around lunch?"

"Oh, I um, I bring my lunch," she replies almost apologetically.

I smirk and shake my head. "Okay, so brown bag it with me."

"_You're _going to bring your lunch?" she asks skeptically.

"I could."

"You mean you could have your housekeeper or your cook make you lunch?" she taunts.

"I don't have a cook or a housekeeper." She raises a questionable eyebrow. "Okay, so I have a housekeeper, but she doesn't live with me, and she only comes three days a week."

She smiles, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"What do you think?" I ask. Could I sound any more desperate?

"Okay, but I have conditions," she says. The bus stops, and a young couple who are hanging off each other and giggling get on, stumbling to the back.

"Negotiating with your boss now, are you, Miss Swan?" I ask as the bus starts to move again. This bus is annoying the hell out of me. I don't know how she does this every day.

"Bella," she corrects.

"Bella." Her smile widens, and her eyes dart from mine to her fingers. "Let's hear your conditions, and I'll consider them," I say gently.

She glances at me nervously, clearing her throat. "First, you have to make your own lunch. No meals from one of the restaurants disguised as something you made yourself," she says, almost like a challenge or something.

"Done." Holy fuck, what do I have in my fridge? It's been two days since Tanya was in to clean the house and restock the fridge. I have no idea what's even in there. She hardly brings anything to begin with. It's not like I'm home enough to worry about lunches and dinners, and any entertaining I do is catered.

"And I really think you should to take the bus home tonight," she adds.

"What?" I ask, laughing. She can't be serious.

"You should take the bus home," she says, making sure to accentuate each word.

"I don't even know if the bus goes where I live."

She points up to a matrix of lines on a route map close to the ceiling of the bus. "You could check the map."

Fuck. I look up at the map, narrowing my eyes in frustration. "It looks like the buses don't go to my neighbourhood," I state.

"So, take it as far as you can."

"And then what?"

"Then you can walk," she says plainly.

I narrow my eyes at her.

"Okay, you can have your driver pick you up at the closest stop to your house," she concedes.

"Aren't you worried about me traveling the bus routes alone?"

She shakes her head, looking amused. "No."

"You wound me, Bella. How would you feel if something happened to me because of your little challenge?" I taunt.

"Crushed, I'm sure," she answers sarcastically, trying to hide her amusement of our exchange.

"Okay. I accept your conditions."

"Okay." She adjusts her bags and then stands slightly, lifting her eyes to the door. "I have to get off here and switch buses."

"Oh." I stand, moving out of the way as she shuffles to the door across from where we were sitting. _What the hell?_ There's more of this? It's going to be three-thirty in the fucking morning before she gets home.

The bus grinds to a halt, and I have to steady myself against the seat to keep from getting jostled. The doors open, and she takes the stairs down, being careful to hold the garment bag away from the floor.

She steps off, and I lunge for the door as it hisses and starts to close, my arm pushing between the doors. They open, and I hop down to the sidewalk, staring down at her while my heart hammers.

"What are you doing?" she asks, her eyes wide while she looks at me as if I'm crazy.

"Switching buses. As much as I'd love to just ride this one up and down the strip all night, it isn't going to get me home."

"Right," she says, moving quickly down the sidewalk and boarding a different bus. I don't hesitate, climbing on behind her. She doesn't turn around this time to question me. She simply shakes her head, pulling out her pass to show to the driver.

I fish out another twenty, dropping it into the container and moving down the aisle. I sink into the seat beside her. Riding these fucking things is exhausting. "Are you sure this is your bus?" she asks playfully.

"I have no idea."

She laughs, running her fingers through her hair as the bus whirls to life. It turns off the strip, the pulsing neon lights giving way to offices and restaurants, and then a residential area as we sit in silence. I try to wrap my head around the fact that I'm essentially stalking her, now. _Jesus, Cullen… creepy much?_

"What time tomorrow?" she asks suddenly, staring at me intently.

"I'll send Mrs. Cope to collect you when I'm ready."

"Well, what if I'm in a meeting or something when you decide _you're ready_?"

"Then you end the meeting, or whatever _something_it is that you're doing," I answer.

"I can't just end a meeting," she argues.

"Yes. You can." She looks at me questioningly. "Fine, I have time at one-thirty," I relent.

"Why couldn't you just say that in the first place?" she asks, laughing.

"Because this is so much more enjoyable," I answer.

She laughs, reaching up and pressing a button on the bar above us. "This is my stop." I look out the window, narrowing my eyes. It's dark out there, with only a few sporadic street lights actually working. "One of the advantages of slumming it. The bus actually stops in my neighbourhood," she says.

I stand up and watch as she fumbles with her bag and gingerly handles the Prada one. She brushes up against me on her way to door, and I have to stifle a groan at the contact.

She holds onto the metal bar in front of the door, waiting until the bus comes to a stop. Panic creeps… I don't want her to go. I'm not done with her yet.

I move beside her, lifting the _Prada_bag from her hands. "What are you doing?"

"You've been asking that a lot, tonight."

"I'm sorry," she says.

"I'm just making sure you get home."

"I can handle it, Mr. Cullen."

"Edward."

"Okay. I can handle it, _Edward._" My dick loves the way my name sounds as it falls from her lips.

The doors open, and she steps down onto the street, breaking into a fast walk immediately. I follow, walking along beside her, taking in the neighbourhood.

In the dimly lit street, there are rows upon rows of townhouses, packed together like sardines. I can hear the echo of barking dogs in the distance and see the glow from the muted light of a corner store up the street. I can't believe she walks here alone; although, to be fair, I'm sure she doesn't do it at almost three in the morning very often.

Still, the thought doesn't sit well. This is not the better part of town. Fuck, I sound like a snob, even to myself. We walk in silence, her heels clicking along the pavement providing the soundtrack, until she stops in front of a set of long wooden stairs leading to one of the townhouses.

"This is me. Home sweet home," she says.

I glance up at the house. It's generic; siding and brick, two small windows on either side of the door, just like all the others on the street. "You're not going to invite me up?"

Her smile inches up slightly. "No. You can get another bus back at the stop," she explains.

"Will it be waiting for me?"

She laughs at how oblivious I am. "No. Buses are kind of like men... there will be another along in twenty minutes or so."

"Not another one like me."

She wets her lip, her laughter fading. "Probably not."

It's the first time I've seen her falter in her attempt to mask her emotions. I hand her the Prada bag, and she takes it gently. "I'm going to pay you back, for this," she says quickly.

"You don't have to do that."

"I want to, well, actually, I need to pay you back. It just seems... wrong."

"It's just a dress and a pair of shoes."

"That cost more than I make in a month," she says.

"Well, maybe you need a raise."

"Yeah, but my boss is a real dick that way." My eyes widen at her. "Shit," she whispers under her breath. "I didn't mean that, Mr. Cullen. I know that you pay extremely well, and I don't want to sound ungrateful... I'm just..." She shakes her head, looking embarrassed.

"Call me Edward, and it's alright. You've had a long night. We'll talk about your obviously less than adequate salary tomorrow," I tease.

"Okay, well... good night, Edward."

"Good night, Bella."

She turns and practically runs up the stairs, while I watch her ass in that skirt. She drops her bag on the balcony and squats down, digging around in the bag, her jacket riding up and revealing the creamy small of her back. She practically glows under the muted light in front of her door.

It's really tempting not to go up there and help her. _Right, that's what you want to do ... help her._ You mean _fuck her_against the door, the railing, any surface will do; I'm not picky.

She pulls out a key and stands, scrambling to the door while I internally chant for her to look back.

_Look back… come on. You know you want to._

My breathing catches as she opens the door and steps inside.

_Turn around… look at me._

But she doesn't.

Chapter end notes:

So, a lot to take in as our Edward experiences something new-someone who challenges and tests him.

Thoughts?

Twitter: CarLemon


	6. Chapter 6

All characterizations, plot lines, backgrounds and details belong to the author. Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. March, 2011.

_Thanks as always, to my beta the incredible xrxdanixrx. Check out her new story Washed Up. XO BB _

_A million thanks to my dear friend MizzezPattinson who pre-reads this story. Much love, hun. I couldn't do it without you. XO_

Let's check in with Bella.

Come, join me.

_Vegas means comedy, tragedy, happiness and sadness all at the same time. -__  
><em>Artie Lange

Chapter 6

_**Bella**_

I shut the door, leaning against it before I fall down. My heart hammers in my chest as I try not to hyperventilate.

Holy fucking shit.

This whole night, dealing with the egos in that room, our little banter, him walking me home… just _him;_ it's all overwhelming. _He_ is overwhelming. I've never been with someone so simultaneously frustrating and tempting in my life.

I need a drink, and I don't even drink. Well, not very often. Okay, so that's a lie. I have been known to enjoy a glass of wine and a daiquiri… Hmmm. I wonder what kind of wine he likes.

_Oh my God! Snap out of it, Bella!_

He's just a man. You know, like you told him come around every twenty minutes or so.

The bags I'm holding slip from my fingers, landing on the floor. Oh, fuck. I'm surprised he hasn't fired me ,given my little show this evening. My snarkiness was in fine form tonight.

He's my boss, for God's sake, and I talked to him like he was anything but. I turn to face the door, rising up on my toes to check through the peep hole.

_Like he's still going to be out there._

I blink, looking through the tiny hole, only seeing the muted amber glow of the street light. Of course he's not there. He's probably called his driver to come pick him up to avoid going on the bus, again. I wouldn't blame him. If I had a driver, I'd want him to pick me up, too.

_You're never going to have a driver._

No. I'm not. That thought brings me back to reality. and I abandon the door, moving to the living room on extremely tired and shaky legs. I set the Prada bag down gently on the back of the overstuffed arm chair on the way to the kitchen.

I open up the fridge and peer inside. I need to get to the grocery store. It's like Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard in here.

I have some salad makings, strawberries, a carton of milk, and half a bottle of Orangina left over from my famous Sangria I made last week when Alice was over.

_Alice!_

I didn't call her at all tonight. I groan, thinking of the litany of messages I'm sure are waiting for me on my cell phone.

I grab the Orangina from the shelf, shut the fridge door, and move back to the living room, sinking onto the couch. God, it feels good to sit down.

I root through my bag for my phone, pulling it out. Of course, the little red star flashes to me, signaling my text messages.

They start off in typical Alice fashion.

_Just wanted to say good luck tonight! You'll do great! XOXOXO_

I kick off my shoes and curl up in the corner of the couch. Yeah, I should probably get a new one, but I've had this couch forever. It's seen me through studying for exams and more movie nights with Alice than I can count. Its old brown leather is fraying, and there's a rip in the cushion, but it's familiar, comfortable, and warm. And right now, that's exactly what I need.

Tonight has been eye-opening, to say the least. I thought I knew what I was getting myself into with the high roller room. Clearly, I had no idea. I've never felt so intimidated and out of place in my life. I'm the polar opposite to every single person in that room, except maybe Seth and a few other members of the team.

It's like a whole other world I never knew existed, with people that don't seem real. Expensive dresses and private drivers ready to whisk them all away at a moment's notice. All of them there to try to one up each other. The tension in that room was excruciatingly thick. I suppose when that much money and pride is on the line, that's to be expected.

I twist off the cap on the Orangina and take a sip, turning my attention back to my messages.

_Oh, Jazz says good luck, too. XOXO_

_Don't forget I'm coming with you to see Charlie tomorrow. XO_

Smiling to myself, I set the drink down on the coffee table, rubbing my foot, which is throbbing. Cullen was right about cheap shoes, not that I would ever admit that him.

I snicker, imagining him trying to navigate the bus system in his expensive suit. Talk about out of place. Edward on a bus is a visual that I won't forget anytime soon.

_Want to scope out the new jewelry store before work?_

_It looks tacky, like gimmickyVegas tacky._

I shake my head, sinking down to the pillow and enjoying Alice's random thoughts.

Alice opened her store three years ago. It's tucked just back from the main strip where she sells the designer silver jewelry she makes. She does extremely well with a steady and loyal clientele that frequently come to her for unique pieces, as well as the constant stream of tourists that flock to shop.

It's also where she met Jasper. He came wandering in, looking for something for his then girlfriend. After three weeks of playful banter, and Jasper making way more visits to the store than he needed to, he broke up with his former girlfriend and has been with Alice ever since. The two of them live in bliss, riding the horse Jasper's father gave him on his mini ranch near the canyon.

In addition to riding horses, lately they both have taken a more than active interest in my lack of a dating life. I know the day is coming when I'm going to be set up on the inevitable blind date from hell designed to test my patience.

It's not as if I don't want to date. I do. I just don't really have the time. Working and trying to help with Charlie's rehabilitation takes all of my time and energy. I'm the type of person who doesn't want to do things half-assed. If I'm going to get into a relationship, or anything else for that matter, I'm going to give it everything I have, and right now, I don't have much left to give.

Which is why I'm seriously starting to doubt my decision to take this job. I know in my heart, it isn't the right fit for me. Tonight, I gave everything to that room, and I still feel like a failure.

I feel unsettled and out of step with who I'm supposed to be. I'm more comfortable in yoga pants and socks than designer dresses and shoes that cost more than my paycheck.

I wonder idly how long Angela is going to be away. How long I'm going to have to do this. I shake my head, knowing I am extremely lucky to have a job like this. I should be content and happy, and I should just learn to keep my mouth shut.

And then, there's Edward. I have absolutely no idea why he got onto the bus or walked me home. It doesn't make any sense. He could have been going home with some woman; stunning, tall, perfect body, every other woman's basic nightmare.

Instead, he was with me. I fight back a smile and continue to scroll down through the messages, trying desperately to put tonight behind me.

_Have you lost your phone?_

_So help me, Swan._

I text her back a quick message, letting her know I'm safe and not lying in a ditch somewhere, before turning off the phone and setting it on the coffee table. I'm pretty sure the rest of her messages are only going to get more frantic, and I shudder to think about the voicemails. I'll hear more than enough ranting to last a lifetime tomorrow or today—I don't even know what time it is.

I do know I'm exhausted. I don't even have the energy to get up from the couch. I pull the soft blanket off the back of the couch and drape it over me.

I shut my eyes, immediately assaulted with images of flipping cards and poker chips, and in the middle of it all, Edward, trying to navigate the Las Vegas bus system. I feel the smile creep across my face and let the night take me.

_WC_

"Bella!" I practically fall off the couch at the unmistakable pissed off voice of Alice.

I sit up, rubbing the kink in the back of my neck as she stands before me with her hands on her hips.

"Good morning to you, too," I grumble, stretching my arms up and squinting as the light peeks through the slats on my living room blinds.

"Does this thing not work?" she rants, picking up my cell phone and tossing it at me, her silver bangles clicking together around her wrist.

"I was busy last night. What time is it, anyway?"

"Eight o'clock, and why are you still in your uniform? We have to go see Charlie and then check out the competition," she rambles, plunking down beside me.

Sometimes, I really question my decision to let Alice keep a key to my place. It obviously was required when we lived together during college, but now, I'm not so sure it was a good idea.

I try to stifle a yawn, while she shakes her head at me. She picks up a large take out cup off the coffee table that I can only hope and pray is a latte.

"Non-fat, no foam, soy latte. Drink up, we're already running late." I manage a smile and take a sip, letting the liquid work its magic. "I want to hear everything about last night. How was it? Did anybody give you a hard time? Oh! How was Edward?" she asks excitedly.

"Jesus, slow down. How many of these have you had?"

"Three. Well?"

I take a sip, while she practically vibrates in anticipation beside me. "I'm not really sure I can explain it. It was overwhelming. The whole thing was just really intimidating," I mumble.

"Intimidating?" she asks, narrowing her eyes at me. "You never get intimidated."

"Yes, I do. I just usually hide it." She rolls her eyes, waiving me off. "I've never been in a situation like that before. I mean these people have money… lots of money, and there's this sense of entitlement about them. It kind of rubbed me the wrong way. It's just not me, Alice."

"What are you talking about? You can totally do this job. You're a smart, confident woman."

"Yeah, I know I can do it. That's not the point." I take another sip, leaning back into the couch. "I don't know. It just all kind of felt fake, like I had to pretend to be someone I'm not. I was walking on eggshells the whole night, trying not to offend anyone."

"Well, you didn't, did you?" I grimace a response, holding the cup between my hands. Her eyes widen. "Oh no. What did you do?"

"I'm surprised I still have a job, actually. I wasn't exactly a ray of sunshine with Edward, and I kind of, might have talked back to him."

"Kind of, might have? Bella, you need this job," she scolds.

"Don't remind me." I glance at the stack of bills looming on the desk in the corner.

"Well, what about Edward? I mean, I've met him with Jazz at a couple of parties and stuff. He seems nice," she says casually.

"He's intense."

She cocks her head to the side. "Intense good or intense bad?"

"A little of both, I think." She gets a devilish look on her face that I'd know anywhere. "What's going on in that crazy head of yours?" I ask warily.

"Nothing," she says, her leg bouncing.

"I know that look."

"He's single, right?" she presses.

"Just stop right there," I warn, getting up from the couch with my latte. "He's my boss, and even if he wasn't, he's a player."

She lifts an eyebrow to me. "How would you know that?"

"I'm not having this conversation. This discussion is over." I'm in desperate need of a long, hot shower if I'm going to make it through this morning with her. "I'm going to jump in the shower."

She nods, her eyes falling to the _Prada_ bag on the back of the chair. "Holy shit! You went shopping?" she shrieks.

"Yeah. Jasper forgot to mention that the standard uniform wasn't exactly acceptable."

She bolts from the couch, unzipping the bag and pulling out the dress. "What necklace did you wear with this? Tell me you wore the big silver hoop one I made for your birthday last year."

"I didn't exactly have time to accessorize."

"So, you didn't wear any jewelry?" I shake my head as she holds the dress up to me. "You didn't need to. This is perfect for you. Did Edward like it?" she asks.

"He better. He paid for it."

She lowers the hanger, her eyes widening. "Edward bought you this?" she asks in disbelief.

"And shoes." Her mouth drops open. "From Manolo Blahnik," I clarify.

"Holy fuck."

"Yeah. Welcome to my alternate universe."

_WC_

"Morning, Charlotte." I smile at her as she flips through a chart at the reception desk. She looks up, returning my smile. "How is he this morning?

"He's good. We tried a bit of a longer walk yesterday. It tired him out, but it's good for him," she says firmly. "You can go on back."

"Thanks." Alice links her arm with mine while we make our way down the hall to Dad's room. I peek in and see him, his back pressed against the headboard, looking at the _Las Vegas Sun, _his brow furrowed.

"Morning, Daddy. I brought a visitor." He looks up from the paper, setting it in his lap, one side of his mouth trying to curl into a smile.

"Aaaalice."

The smile breaks across her face, and she launches herself at him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Even though she saw him three days ago, it's like it's been weeks. With Alice and I being so close during high school and beyond, she's like a second daughter to him.

"Nnnnew bbblling?" he asks, pointing a shaky finger to the bangles that swing on her wrist.

"Yeah. I just finished them last night. Do you like them?" she asks, twisting her wrist so the fluorescent light overhead catches the silver.

He nods, turning his attention to me. "Hhhow w…was last ni…night?'

"It was good. One of the players won over five hundred thousand dollars." His eyes grow wide. "Yeah, I know. It's crazy. I can't even imagine winning that kind of money."

He shakes his head, holding the paper out to me. "Nnnnew sshow?"

I furrow my brow, sitting down on the opposite side of the bed from Alice and reading the headline at the top of the paper.

_Oasis Announces its Latest Production, Dawn_

My eyes fall to the stock photo of Edward, looking equal parts handsomely corporate and tempting while he stands with his arms folded across his chest in front of the lobby of the casino. No one should look this good.

"If you're done ogling your boss, maybe you can share with the rest of the class?" Alice's voice breaks me from my haze, and I stick my tongue out at her.

"Looks like we're opening some new acrobatic act at the casino," I explain.

"Eeeclipse t…too," Dad adds.

I scan the rest of the article, nodding. "Yeah, I guess so." I place the paper back on the bed, folding it so I'm not distracted by Edward's picture. "Charlotte said you went for a walk yesterday."

He nods slowly. "Oooonce a… around the nnurses st…station."

I smile, squeezing his hand. "That's great! Feel like going again?"

His eyes dart to Alice and then back to me, a look of sadness overtaking him.

"Mmaayybe l…later," he manages.

"Later my ass!" Alice says, standing up from the bed and holding her hand out. "Come take a walk with us."

He looks between us apprehensively before slowly placing his hand in Alice's, and we begin a new round of baby steps.

_WC_

"How long do they think rehab is going to take?" Alice asks as we pull into the parking lot behind her store.

"I don't know. The doctors can't be sure. We're just taking the days as they come," I answer quietly, twisting my fingers together.

There's nothing I want more than for Dad to get better. I can't even imagine the emotional strain he's going through. Days like today are huge for him. Seeing him with Alice, hearing his broken laughter, I got a glimpse of who he used to be, and it gives me the resolve to do what I have to do to make sure he gets better; even if that does mean enduring more nights of raging egos in the Twilight Room.

She puts her Honda Civic into park, turning to me in her seat. "He's going to get better, hun. Charlie's never been someone who gives up, and neither can you."

"I won't."

"Good, because this morning, the way you were talking, it sounded like you wanted to."

I reach across the console and hug her. "Thank you for not letting me."

_WC_

I place my red cloth lunch bag in the employee refrigerator, glancing up with a smile at the black dome that hangs from the ceiling. I wonder who is watching. If _he_ is watching.

Of course he's not watching. The man runs a multimillion dollar casino. He doesn't give a shit about employees in the break room. I shake my head, moving back to the reception desk and quickly get immersed with Emily in checking in the latest crowd of Louis Vuitton welding guests.

It's almost two before I take a breather from reception, and I wonder if Edward even remembers our lunch date.

_Date?_ No, it's not a lunch _date_. It's a meeting, one which he seems to have forgotten.

I can't seem to get a handle on the foreign feeling that courses through me. I'm disappointed? Hurt? Rejected? I shouldn't be feeling any of those things. I need to keep grounded in reality. _My_ reality, which does not include minimum bets of five thousand dollars.

I think about the amount of money that went through that room last night. It could make such a difference to much more worthy causes than lining the already bulging pocketbooks of the high rollers.

I know that Edward does support various charities. There are frequent fundraising events and various galas that we've had at the casino in the past, which is more than I can say for some of the other casinos in the city.

Still, he could have at least had Mrs. Cope call down to cancel, instead of leaving me here waiting while the anxious feeling gnawing in the pit of my stomach grows with each passing minute.

I close the spa reservation book with more force than necessary. It was just a stupid meeting. A stupid meeting with my incredibly hot boss in his office, where we would have been alone.

I feel my face flush and look up to the elevators in time to see Mrs. Cope emerging. My heart hammers while she glides to me, the mandatory agenda tucked under her arm, her hair pinned back into a tight bun.

She's the picture of calm in a tailored beige suit, her reading glasses perched on her nose.

"I'm sorry, Bella. I should have called down. He ran late with a conference call. He's ready now," she says, smiling warmly.

My mouth goes dry. He's ready… I most certainly am not.

"It's okay," I squeak out. "I mean, if he wants to cancel. It's not a big deal."

"He doesn't want to cancel." I nod, moving out from behind the desk and trying not to pass out. "Aren't you forgetting something?" she asks, her smile inching up further.

I furrow my brow in confusion. "Um, was I supposed to bring something?"

"Your lunch?" she asks in amusement.

"Oh. Yeah. I'll just be a minute."

"Take your time," she says, watching as I leave Emily in charge before moving down the hall and into the break room.

Edward remembered about me bringing lunch. I wonder if he's done the same. What does someone like Edward Cullen bring for lunch with an employee? I open the door the fridge and pull out my lunch bag, tucking it under my arm and returning to Mrs. Cope.

I follow along behind her as she leads me to the private elevator, punching in a code and holding the door open.

I step to the back of the elevator, flattening my hand over the front of my skirt and watching while she presses another code that closes the door and whisks us up. Once again, my stomach is left in the lobby, while I stare out the glass encasement, the casino floor disappearing below us.

"In all the years I've worked for Edward, he's never brought his lunch to work," she says casually, looking up at the digital numbers.

I swallow back the lump in my throat. "He hasn't?" I clutch the bag closer to my chest, going through what I packed for lunch; a Greek salad, some pita bread, and strawberries. Fairly basic. I wonder what he's packed.

She turns to me, shaking her head. "No. It's a first for him."

"Is that a good thing?" I ask tentatively.

"I think it's a very good thing."

The elevator dings, opening to a large hallway with a black marble floor. She holds the door, waiting while I take a step out.

"This way." She turns to the right, our high heels clicking along while we make our way down the longest hallway in history. I try to take it all in, because let's face it, I'll probably never be up here again.

The walls are covered in a rich burgundy paint, art deco paintings on the walls, intermixed with black and white photographs of what looks like old pictures of the Vegas strip.

I glance up to the ceiling, seeing more of the black domes; the eye in the sky. I can only imagine the security system that must be in this place, and for the first time, I wonder how Edward really feels about all of this. It has got to be daunting being in charge of a mammoth operation like The Oasis, and knowing that at the end of the day you are ultimately the one responsible for its success or failure.

It seems to take forever before Mrs. Cope stops at a set of massive, frosted glass doors with the Oasis logo embossed in the centre of each of them.

She opens one of the doors and steps into a huge waiting room, complete with rich coloured hardwood floors, plush black leather sofas and chairs, and floor to ceiling windows.

She moves behind a large, stylish black desk and sits down in front of a computer, typing something on the keyboard.

I stand, gaping at the sheer size of the room and the overstated feeling that engulfs me. It's just like I felt last night; out of place and overwhelmed.

_You will not be snarky. Remember what Alice said. You are a smart, confident woman._

"Bella?" Mrs. Cope stops my internal mantra, and I turn to look at her. "You can go on in. Enjoy your lunch."

I manage a smile and move to the imposing mahogany doors, staring up at the copper engraved letters.

_Edward Cullen, CEO_

With my heart in my throat, I turn the knob and push open the door.

Chapter end notes:

So, mixed emotions for our Bella to deal with.

Thoughts?

Orangina- A delicious carbonated citrus beverage. It's perfect for Sangria, trust me.

If you're reading BTN you know that I recently lost several chapters of my work do to a computer crash. We are now at the point in this story where I am having to rebuild those chapters. This is not an easy process. Update hopefully in the next two weeks.

Twitter: CarLemon


	7. Chapter 7

All characterizations, plot lines, backgrounds and details belong to the author. Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight.

_Thanks as always, to my beta the incredible xrxdanixrx. Check out her latest story Washed Up. XO BB _

_A million thanks to my dear friend MizzezPattinson who pre-reads this story. Much love, hun. I couldn't do it without you. XO_

Thanks to all those reading and reviewing. In case you missed the author's notes on my other story, my computer and external hard drive backup had a major melt down, causing me to lose all of the chapters I had written for this story, along with chapters of BTN. Rewriting these chapters has been extremely difficult, and as Dani will tell you, I'm not one to just throw something together in order to keep to some arbitrarily imposed posting schedule. Thank you for your patience.

Let's check in with Edward.

Come, join me.

_Las Vegas was and is a hard town that will make you pay for your inability to restrain your desires. If you have a weakness, Las Vegas will punish you. – Hal Rothman_

Chapter 7

**Edward**

"Yes, I said bus stop, Sam." I run my fingers through my hair in frustration while I pace the darkened street.

"Mr. Cullen, I may have dosed off, but my cell phone was on and right beside me the whole time. I didn't hear it until now."

"It's okay. I didn't call until now," I bark back at him.

"I don't understand, sir. Why are you at a bus stop?" Sam asks after a pause.

That's a fucking good question. Clearly, he's stunned by the fact that I'm currently standing on a corner, on a dimly lit street, in the middle of fucking no where. It's after three-thirty in the goddamn morning, and I'm not even home yet. It's taken three buses to get to this point. How the fuck do people do this everyday?

"It's a long story. How long will it take for you to get to me?"

I hear the distinctive sound of the car accelerating through the phone. "Ten or fifteen minutes, sir. I'll be there as quickly as I can," he answers, his voice hurried.

I end the call, turning my BlackBerry repeatedly in my hand while I try to figure out what the hell I'm doing. I'm out here, in the middle of the night, after enduring the staleness that only the Las Vegas bus system can provide, all because of Bella Swan.

I slip my BlackBerry into the inner pocket of my jacket and wait. I can't stand to wait. It pisses me off to no end. I'm exhausted and I need a fucking shower, again, all because of her with her enticing legs and sharp attitude that would normally annoy the fuck out of me.

I never should have watched her through the cameras today. It's like I'm some sort of peeping tom, leering at the forbidden fruit. I'm fucking smarter than this. I take a deep breath, watching down the street for Sam, like that will somehow make him get here faster.

As I peer up the blackened road, I think over the conversation about jobs I had with Bella, and I wonder for a moment if Sam really is happy. Is this his chosen career path? Waiting at my beck and call twenty-four hours a day? It's not a question I ever would have asked myself before now… before her.

There's a lot of shit I've done tonight that I wouldn't have done before her. Lingering at the Twilight Room, hopping onto a bus, walking an employee home, asking her to lunch- the list seems endless. The most concerning part is I loved every minute of it… well, not this part-this waiting around God only knows where at the last stop on the bus line. But the rest of it? Yes. I could get used to spending time with Bella Swan.

_WC_

After a long and much needed shower, I'm sitting in a lounger on the balcony outside my bedroom, looking down on the pulsating neon snake of the strip, the dry desert air stagnate around me. The indulgences of the night are well underway in the city below, never waning, pausing only to refuel before diving head first into complete reckless abandon again.

Up here, above it all, it's quiet, peaceful even. There are no levers to be pulled, no shiny dice dancing over burgundy felt, no buzzing of excitement that radiates from the casino floor. It's the only place I can escape the incessant noise that surrounds me on a daily basis, and I relish in it, knowing that tomorrow, it will start all over again.

A warm breeze hits me, the sounds of the waterfall in one of the pools creating a soothing rhythmic backdrop. Acres of landscaped perfection and over five thousand square feet for me roam around in. It would be nice to share this someone.

I wander into my bedroom, slipping into the oversized bed, staring up at the ceiling. Sleep has never been an issue for me. Apparently, that's something else that has changed. I'm exhausted, but my mind is racing, keeping me from the one thing it needs the most.

The shadows cast on the wall are distracting. The green digital numbers from the clock on the nightstand taunt me. The subtle creaks in the house I didn't know existed before are annoying the fuck out of me.

It doesn't matter how many times I open and close my eyes, or how many times I toss and turn, trying to find the right position, sleep isn't happening. I groan, rolling over, staring out the massive window, watching silently as Las Vegas parties into the night.

_WC_

The water rolls off me as I stand in my colossal shower, trying to wake up. I've had maybe three hours of restless sleep at best and that doesn't bode well for my agenda today.

I'm booked solid, a fact which is not unusual. Lunch with an employee, however, is highly unusual; particularly this employee who I can't seem to get out of my head. I turn the tap, shutting off the shower and stepping onto the marble floor, reaching for a towel from the warming bar.

Running the towel through my hair, I stand in front of the mirror, silently asking what the fuck I'm doing. What do I hope to accomplish by meeting with her today? A date? A casual fuck? I shake my head at that thought. That would be the epitome of stupid on my part. Fucking an employee. As I try to tame my hair into submission, I stare back at my reflection, knowing damn well I want a lot more from Bella Swan than a casual fuck.

_WC_

"Who is she?" My father's voice rises through the speaker phone in the kitchen.

I stare blankly into the oversized stainless steel refrigerator, trying to figure out what to make for lunch."Why do you think there is a woman involved? What's wrong with taking a lunch to work?" I argue.

Mom bursts out laughing. "For you? Everything, dear. You're the CEO of the biggest casino in Las Vegas, and I'm kind of agreeing with your father on this one. You've met someone, haven't you?"

I roll my eyes, pulling out some roasted chicken from the deli container and sniffing it. It smells alright- at least, I think it does- so I set it on the granite counter top and hunt down some bread.

"Even if I have what's the big deal?"

"I knew it!" Dad says excitedly. "When are we meeting her? It is a her, right?"

"What? Yes, it's a her," I say, finding some crusty bread which is hard as a rock. I scowl, tossing it into the trash and abandoning the sandwich idea.

"Hey, don't get all defensive on me. We were just starting to wonder, son," he says.

"Oh, no we weren't. But either way, if you're happy, so are we," Mom chimes in.

"I'm not anything, Mom. It's just lunch," I mumble, opening the fridge again.

"Mhmm. If it's not anything, why are you calling me at seven-thirty in the morning?" she asks.

"Can I not call my parents? I haven't talked to you since you got back from your trip," I say defensively.

"Yes, dear. I know. You were… indisposed when we got back," Mom says. I can almost see her raised eyebrow.

I chuckle, thinking about the Gucci sales woman. "Mmm."

"What's happening with Jacob Black, Edward?" Dad asks, changing the subject. "I saw the announcement about their show, _Dusk._ That's a little too much of a coincidence, don't you think?"

I nod, pulling out some wilted lettuce from the bottom of the fridge. "Jasper thinks we have a mole," I admit, tossing the lettuce into the garbage with the bread. I really need Tanya to stock the fridge more often; although, I suppose I could do that. I pause for a moment, trying to remember the last time I was even in a grocery store. I can't even remember. That's a bit pathetic. Surely to God I can get my own groceries… not that I actually have time to do that.

My internal rambling is cut short as Dad's annoyed voice comes through the phone. "That fucker," he curses.

"Carlisle!" Mom complains, her voice elevated through the speaker. It's like she's standing right in the middle of the kitchen, she's so loud.

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, then," he mutters.

"No, it doesn't," I agree, finding some left over penne pasta and pulling it out of the fridge.

My rivalry with Jacob, with the Blacks in general, isn't new. Dad and Jacob's father, Billy, shared a similar distain for each other as they jockeyed for notoriety during the Vegas hay-days.

They took shots at each other, building names for themselves in this town, and like me, Dad always came out on top. Sure, Billy got a few cheap shots in every now and then, but in the end, he was no match for Dad.

They didn't have all the state of the art equipment we have today, but what they lacked in technology, they made up for in ruthless deals and priceless insider information. That's harder to come by these days, which is why the fact that we have a mole is so concerning.

"Edward, you need to get a handle on this situation and soon," Dad dictates, dropping into his authoritative tone, his voice booming.

I shake my head in frustration, chopping up the chicken harder than I really need to and adding it to the pasta. "I know what I'm doing, Dad. It's not like this is my first time around the block with that son of a-"

"Edward!" Mom interrupts.

"Sorry, Mom."

"I'm not saying you don't know what you're doing, son. Just don't underestimate Jacob. If he's anything like his father, he knows a hell of a lot more than you think he does," Dad says cryptically.

"I know. Jasper's on it. He'll find out who it is soon."

"Well, now that that's out of the way, Edward, we need for you to decide on a date for the heart and stroke fundraiser. I sent Shelly a few dates for you to have a think on, and I was wondering…"

Mom's voice becomes a static blur to me as my mind wanders to Jacob's latest stunt. One-upping me on this acrobatic troop is definitely a coup for him. I'm sure he's sitting back in his tacky, gold platted office, gloating to anyone who will listen.

As I finish with my chicken pasta salad creation and look for dessert, I think it's time I pay Mr. Black another visit.

_WC_

"Sam?" I break the silence from the back seat of the Mercedes as we wind our way towards the strip.

Sam's eyes drift to the rearview mirror as he watches me closely. "Sir?"

"Do you enjoy your job?"

His brow furrows. "I'm sorry, sir?"

"Do you enjoy this? Driving me around all day long?" I ask seriously.

"Have I done something to upset you, Mr. Cullen?"

"No. Of course not. I'm just wondering."

The tension releases slightly in his shoulders. "I'm very lucky to work for you," he says firmly.

"Why do you say that?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "You're one of the good ones, Mr. Cullen."

I shake my head, not quite understanding. "What does that mean?"

"A couple of my buddies have similar gigs, but their boss's are real jerks," he explains.

"Real jerks?"

"Yeah, you know… the pay is lousy, they treat them like lowlifes, that sort of thing."

I scowl, nodding. "But that doesn't answer the question about the job," I press.

"I enjoy it, sir, but I don't exactly love it," he admits.

"What would you love to do?" I ask.

He shifts in his seat, his eyes nervous in the mirror.

"It's okay. I'm not going to hold your answer against you or anything."

"Security. I'd like to get into security. It would be good to work some more normal hours with the baby coming soon," he answers quickly.

"Baby?"

"My wife is pregnant… very pregnant, sir."

I had no idea his wife was pregnant… I had no idea he had a wife, if I'm being honest. "What kind of security?"

"Well… surveillance," he says hesitantly. "I've taken some online courses through the college."

"We have positions in surveillance all the time here."

His grip on the steering wheel tightens. "I know, sir."

"Then why haven't you said something?"

"I didn't want to bother you, and you never asked."

I nod, looking out the window as we approach the neon lights already pulsing on the strip.

_WC_

"Is something on fire?" Jasper's amused voice comes through my BlackBerry as we start towards the Oasis.

I chuckle, shaking my head. "No, not really. I need you to create a program."

"A program? Isn't that Emmett's area of expertise?"

"Not a security program, an educational program, you know, for employees," I state.

Silence greets me for a moment before he answers. "We have a few of those already, remember? The internships your mom started? Wait, are you wanting an intern? Please don't make me clean up a Lewinsky-spot-on-a-blue-dress-mess."

I chuckle at Jasper's description. "No. I don't want an intern… well, not really. I was thinking more along the lines of an MBA program."

"An MBA program?"

I stare out the window as the fountains of the Oasis come into view. "Yes."

He lets out a frustrated sigh. "Are you going to give me more than that to go on, or am I supposed to read your mind?" he asks dryly.

"There are a few employees we have who are trying to earn their MBA, but having… difficulty financially in doing that."

"A few employees? Oh, wait. I get it. You mean one particular employee, don't you?"

"Jasper…"

"I didn't even ask how Bella did last night, but obviously, I don't need to if you're wanting to create a special program for her," he taunts.

"It's not like that—"

"You just keep telling yourself that," he cuts in.

"It's a legitimate idea. You know how hard it is to find valued employees, hard workers. I don't want to lose any of those people."

"Mhmm. And so, out of the blue, you want to start a MBA assistance program to keep them?"

"She doesn't belong in that room, Jasper," I say firmly.

"Did something happen to her in there last night?" he asks, his tone now serious.

"No –she handled the room, but she's better suited for something else. She's green and vulnerable in there."

"So was Angela when she started," he fires back at me.

"This isn't up for negotiation. I need the outline of a program by one o'clock."

"Whatever you say, boss," he says sarcastically, chuckling.

I ignore his blatant tone and end the call, smirking to myself as Sam pulls the car to the entrance of the casino.

_WC_

"If you're interested in pursuing a career in surveillance, I can talk to Emmett. We always need good people up there. People we can trust. It's not easy to find in this town," I say to Sam, opening the door.

"And you trust me?" he asks, turning in his seat to me.

"You wouldn't have been with me for the last four years if I didn't."

He smiles nervously. "Well, I would really appreciate that."

"I'll talk to him today. He's a better boss than I am, anyway."

Sam shakes his head. "I doubt that, sir."

"Trust me. It wouldn't have taken him four years to ask you if you enjoyed your job." I rise out of car, leaning back in to grab my laptop bag and my Nike gym bag. "And he would have known you were expecting a baby," I add, closing the door and taking the stairs, weaving past the crowds that have already started to stare in amazement at the overstated entrance to the casino.

The doors slide open as I step into the lobby, my head turning to the front desk before I can even think to stop it.

"Good morning, Mr. Cullen." A chorus of voices rings out to me from behind the opulent reception area, none of which are the one I want to hear.

I nod a response, turning my attention to Mrs. Cope, dutifully waiting by the elevator bank with mystery tea in hand. She's dressed immaculately as always, in a beige tailored pant suit, with the ever present leather journal containing my agenda at the ready.

She lifts a quizzical eyebrow from behind her glasses as she spots the gym bag in my hand.

"Good morning, Edward," she says, holding out the cup to me.

"Mrs. Cope." I nod, taking the cup in my free hand as she eyes me curiously. I blow lightly at the liquid, taking a tentative sip. "Mmm, mint this morning?"

She nods, and we make our way to the key pad at the door leading to the private elevator where she punches in the code.

"Mint is soothing. I thought you could use it after a night with the high rollers. How did Bella manage?" she asks as the doors open and we step through to the marble floor.

"She did alright," I say, trying to fight the smile I feel pulling at my lips.

"Just alright?" she presses as I fumble with the tea and the ridiculous gym bag which contains my lunch, in an effort to retrieve my BlackBerry with this hour's security code. "Need some help?" She smirks, holding out her free hand, lifting her eyebrows to the gym bag.

I stare at her for a second, before passing it to her and pulling my BlackBerry from my jacket breast pocket.

She looks at me questioningly. "Should I bother to ask what's in here? You have a full selection of work out clothes upstairs," she says, narrowing her eyes. "Wait, you didn't entertain a Nike sales woman last night, did you?"

I chuckle, finding Emmett's email with the code, pressing it into the key pad before slipping my BlackBerry back into my jacket. "No. No Nike sales woman," I say, taking the bag from her and trying to avoid eye contact while the doors open.

I hold the door while she steps into the elevator. I move beside her, and the doors close, whisking us up to the twentieth floor.

I glance down at her, eyeing the leather bound journal. "Today's agenda?" I ask.

"You already know your agenda, Edward. Are you going to tell me what's in the bag, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?" she asks, her smirk widening.

"I'm having lunch with Bella today, if you must know."

She furrows her brow, looking at me like I'm insane… maybe I am. "Okay, and the bag contains what?"

"My lunch," I say casually, staring up at the numbers on the elevator.

"_You_ brought your lunch… in a gym bag, no less?"

I look down at her, raising an eyebrow. "Is that a problem?"

"No." She shakes her head, opening the agenda, unable to hide her amusement. "Not at all. It's totally normal. Do we need to see about new chefs, then?" she asks.

I look at her questioningly. "What?"

"I'm assuming if you're bringing your lunch you must not be a fan of any of the nine five star restaurants we have here," she says, trying to sound serious.

"Are you mocking me this early in the morning, Mrs. Cope?" I ask.

"Me? Never, Edward," she says, clearing her throat. "Now then, your agenda."

I chuckle and nod, tuning out her voice as she rattles off my insane schedule for the day.

_WC_

"Is everyone behaving?" I ask, moving beside Emmett as he sits at the helm of the observation room.

He nods, not taking his eyes off the monitor in front of him. "For the most part. This guy, though…" He waves his hand at the screen. "Total amateur. It's actually pretty funny."

I lean against the desk, watching for a few minutes, not seeing anything other than a really cheap suit at one of the Blackjack tables. I shake my head, becoming impatient. "I don't—"

"Wait for it, bro," Emmett interrupts. "There! Did you see that?"

"See what?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at the screen.

He shakes his head at me, reversing the video and slowing it down as I watch closely. "There." He stops the video and zooms in. "He's mucking. He's actually got pretty quick hands," he says.

With the evolution of security cameras, we rarely see attempts at cheating like hand mucking anymore. Essentially, a player removes a card from the table without the dealer or other players seeing it, keeping it concealed for later use in the game.

I lean closer and stare at the frame by frame video, which clearly shows the player reaching into the cuff of his cheap and poorly tailored jacket, pulling out a card, and switching it out with another.

"Unbelievable," I mutter. "And the dealer isn't seeing that?"

"He saw it, and the pit boss called up a few minutes ago, too," Emmett says, shaking his head. "The guy's got balls. I'll give him that. It's been a while since we've seen that here."

I nod, watching for a few more minutes. The player does have fast hands, and his surgically enhanced fuck for the day, sitting beside him, is certainly trying her best to create a distraction for every other man at the table.

"Eric," Emmett says, finally tearing his eyes from the screen.

"I'm on it," Eric answers, immediately talking into his headset, relaying instructions to the security team on the floor, who move into the position at the table almost instantaneously.

"So, an interesting night for you last night," Emmett says, leaning back in his chair and smirking at me, turning away from the screen while the security team removes the player and his partner in crime from the table.

"Interesting?"

He nods. "I think that's a first for you."

"A first?"

"The bus?" he presses, grinning.

"You saw that?"

He lifts his eyebrows. "Do you really have to ask me that? He waves his hand around the surveillance room proudly. "I see everything."

I chuckle, shaking my head. "Yeah. I guess you could say it was… interesting."

"Mhmm. You like her," he says matter-of-factly.

I level him a stare. "Don't be ridiculous."

He shrugs his shoulders. "I'm just saying. The cameras don't lie," he says, clearly amused.

"If you're done analyzing my every move, I have something important to talk to you about."

"Changing the subject?" He chuckles, shaking his head. "Okay, shoot."

"You know Sam?"

"Your driver, Sam? Yeah, he's a good guy. His wife is ready to pop any second," he says excitedly.

Of course Emmett knows about Sam's wife. "He's interested in pursuing surveillance. I told him I'd talk to you to see if you need anyone."

He nods, getting up from his chair and moving to another computer, typing on the keyboard. "He's a really good guy," he says, looking at me. "Are you sure you want to move him? I know how picky you are." He grins before turning back to the screen.

"I can find another driver. It would be good for him – you know? Better hours for when the baby comes," I state, repeating Sam's words from earlier this morning.

He studies the screen as he scrolls through it. "His employment record is clean. Glowing reviews from his snobby boss." He chuckles, glancing at me. "And he plays a mean game of football."

"You've played football with Sam?"

"On Sundays, when you actually let him have some time to himself, yeah."

I furrow my brow. "How come I don't know this?" I ask seriously.

Emmett laughs, standing up and slapping me on the back. "There's a lot you don't know."

_WC_

"This is really good, Jasper," I say through the speaker phone while I scan through his MBA proposal on my laptop.

"You sound surprised. I do know what I'm doing, Edward. I'm not just another pretty face," he jokes.

I chuckle, skimming over the outline. "And you've already spoken with the Dean at University of Nevada?"

"Dean Molina and I go way back," he explains. "And besides, when he heard how much press the school would be getting, how could he say no?"

"Thank you. I know I just kind of sprung this on you this morning."

"That's why I get paid the big bucks, my friend."

I laugh, sending the proposal to the printer beside my computer. "How's the investigation going on our potential problem?" I ask.

"Slowly," he says, his tone serious.

"I don't like the sounds of that."

"Neither do I. Whoever Jacob has in here is staying pretty far under the radar."

I nod. "Alright, well, keep me posted. I don't think I have to tell you that this needs to be taken care of and fast," I state firmly.

"I know."

_WC_

It's the conference call that will never end. I loathe these types of calls, typically because I have little patience for people who wish to waste my time with mundane descriptions of the latest slot machine they desperately want me to buy.

Today, however, what is annoying me more than anything is that this call, which is with a company my father started doing business with over fifteen years ago, is delaying my lunch plans. If Mr. Jenks wasn't a personal friend of Dad's, I would have hung up on him twenty minutes ago.

Actually, I shouldn't really complain, it has given me time to engage in what appears to be my latest indulgence—scanning the casino lobby for Bella. As Jenks drones on about the latest advancements in digital video displays, I've been searching for her.

It's amazing what you'll find when you start looking. In the past half an hour, I've seen employees shamelessly flirting in the break room, one of our VIP guests blowing up at a bell hop because his all too expensive luggage was left too long at the entrance, and a middle aged couple, clearly on a break from their dull lives, groping each other like teenagers in one of the elevators.

I can feel the smile spread slowly across my face when I finally find her. She's turning a pen through her fingers, dropping it repeatedly as she studies the computer screen in front of her at the reception desk.

"Edward? Are you still there?" Jenks' voice comes through the speaker phone, bringing me back to reality.

"You've given me a lot to think about," I lie. "If you can send over the specs and your proposal, I'll have the team take a look."

I stifle a chuckle as I see Bella look up to the massive ornate clock on the wall above the elevators, furrowing her brow and then shaking her head before turning her attention back to the computer in front of her. She hates waiting as much as I do.

"Thank you, Edward. We'll send it over this afternoon. Tell your father I'll see him at the jockey club tomorrow night," Jenks answers.

"I certainly will." I hang up from Jenks and turn off the surveillance software.

I need to stop this shit. She's an employee and nothing more. I look over at the pasta salad and the bowl of strawberries currently sitting on my circular working table, overlooking one of the pools below.

I run my hands through my already crazed hair and get up from my chair, moving to gaze down at the sun worshippers below. I envy them in a way; lounging without a care in the world but when their next drink is coming.

I need a fucking vacation. I wonder if Emmett and Jasper would be interested in going somewhere. I shake my head at that thought. They're not going anywhere without Rose and Alice, and the last thing I need is to be a fifth wheel on a vacation.

The familiar soft knock on the door from Mrs. Cope ends any vacation plans abruptly. "Edward?"

I turn from the floor to ceiling windows, smiling at her.

"Shall I get Bella for you, now? You're running a bit behind schedule, and we wouldn't want your home made lunch to go to waste," she says, smirking slightly.

I chuckle and nod. "We can't have that, can we?"

"I'll go down to the lobby now."

I nod, moving behind the bar as she makes her way to the door. I should probably have drinks ready. I scan the shelves, scowling. Wine… completely inappropriate no matter how good it is. Whiskey… again, unsuitable for afternoon lunch with an employee. I open the fridge, shaking my head at the beer. "Do I not have bottled water in here?" I ask, closing the fridge and staring at Mrs. Cope.

"I can have some sent up," she says, clearly amused.

I nod. "Oh, I also need you to find out where Jacob Black is this afternoon. I need to see him."

She stops at the door, quirking an eyebrow. "I can't exactly call over there and get you an appointment, Edward," she protests.

"Yes, I know, but you're resourceful. I just need to know where he is. I have a few words I need to say to him."

She shakes her head. "You're worse than your father."

"Hey! I resent that, and Dad and Billy were at each other's throats all the time."

She nods. "Yes, but they also knew when to let sleeping dogs lie," she states.

"If you think I'm letting him get away with this latest stunt without saying a word to him, you're crazy."

"Tracking him down and deliberately provoking him may not be the best idea," she counters. I nod, furrowing my brow. "There's something to be said about subtlety."

"There's also something to be said about making a statement."

She tilts her head to the side. "Then make a statement where it hurts him most, his pocket book. You know at the end of the day, our show will bring in more revenue than his," she states.

"That man pisses me off," I admit, crossing the office back to the table.

"Well, you better get over it… you have a date," she says sarcastically, pulling open the door.

"It's not a date!" I yell after her as the door shuts, leaving me alone to wait.

Chapter end notes

Thoughts?

Twitter: CarLemon


	8. Chapter 8

All characterizations, plot lines, backgrounds and details belong to the author. Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight.

_Thanks as always, to my beta the incredible xrxdanixrx. Check out her latest story Washed Up. XO BB _

_Many thanks to my dear friend Lattecoug who stepped in to beta this chapter. *hugs* XO_

_A million thanks to my partner in crime MizzezPattinson who pre-reads this story. Much love, hun. I couldn't do it without you. XO_

Thanks to all those reading and reviewing. In case you are one of those people who don't read authors notes or chapter end notes, or Twitter, I will restate here that I am still in the process of rebuilding everything I lost when my computer died several months ago. That unfortunately included the entirety of this story. Thank you for your patience.

Let's check in with Bella.

Come, join me.

_They are the new breed of slot machine-colorful, fancy, exciting, wonderful... and deadly. -Frank Scoblete_C

Chapter 8

The door clicks shut behind me as I try to remember to breathe. I scan the colossal office, feeling insignificant at best, clutching my ridiculous red lunch bag in my hand. This place deserves to be in some office decorating magazine. Dark mahogany colored walls, sleek black furnishings, what looks like a full bar to the right, and several computer monitors set up on the expansive desk that sits beside a bank of floor to ceiling windows.

The most impressive furnishing in the office has turned from the windows to cast his gaze over me appraisingly.

He's dressed in a dark blue, impeccably cut suit that is probably worth more than what I make in a month. He offers me a grin that makes my palms sweat and my heart race faster, while he saunters slowly across the gleaming hardwood floor.

How can one man be equally sexy and intimidating as hell? Maybe he is sexy because he is intimidating… or vice versa. _Focus, Bella!_

"Miss Swan," he says, a slight smile playing on his lips as he stops in front of me. "My apologies for making you wait."

I lift a brow, wondering if he really is sorry. "Bella," I somehow manage, in a smaller voice than I intended.

He smirks and sweeps his arm to a large circular table next to the windows. "Would you like to sit, _Bella_?" He emphasizes my name for effect, and I take a shaky breath in, trying to compose myself.

"Yes, thank you." I move in front of him, making my way across the hardwood floor, the heels on my _Payless _pumps clicking rhythmically. I should have worn the Manolos. _Damn him for being right about the shoes! _I stop at the table, setting down my lunch bag and glance out the window.

The view is spectacular. I shouldn't be surprised. The strip stretches out below, pulsing with life, giving way to a vista of the vast open desert in the distance. I wonder how often he looks out the window and just takes time to appreciate this.

"That's quite a view," I reflect, turning back to him, finding his gaze lingering on me.

"Yes. It absolutely is," he states, keeping his eyes locked to mine as he moves to one of the black leather chairs and holds it out, his fingers grazing slowly over the fabric. "Please, sit."

I slide between the chair and the table, sinking down to the plush seat. I feel him push the chair forward, his fingers brushing my shoulder. My breathing hitches at the contact as he moves to the chair opposite me, sitting down.

Somehow, this doesn't feel much like a lunch meeting. I'm not sure how to categorize it. I focus instead on steadying my shaking hands before reaching for my lunch bag, opening it slowly and pulling out the containers, acutely aware that I'm under his intent stare. "I had Mrs. Cope bring up some bottled water, but if you like something else, I can—"

"Water is fine," I say, finally raising my eyes to meet his. _Strong, confident woman. _I repeat Alice's words in my head before opening the lid on my Greek salad. See? You can handle this. Simple lunch…nothing out of the ordinary.

He nods, reaching for his fork and stabbing a piece of pasta, his gaze never leaving mine. "It's quite the heat wave we've been having," he says politely.

Ah, so we're going down the forced small talk road. _I don't think so, Cullen. _I recall vividly the first conversation we had in the _Twilight Room_. He wasn't keen on talking about banalities then, why start now?

"Edward, with all due respect, I'm pretty sure you didn't bring me up here to talk about the heat wave," I respond flatly, pushing my fork into a piece of feta and taking a deliberate bite. I silently pat myself on the back as I see his expression shift, a glimpse of a genuine smile playing on his lips.

"You like to cut right to the chase, don't you?" he asks, titling his head to the side.

I chew the feta slowly, preventing me from opening my big mouth yet again.

"You said you wanted to talk about some changes to the room for Thursday," I prompt after swallowing. I open the bottle of water, taking a much needed sip. Wine would be so much better… or maybe vodka. My thoughts drift back to the last time I was drunk with Alice on one too many green apple martinis. Maybe that's not such a good idea.

"Right," he says, switching immediately into business mode, his hand falling over a thin stack of papers on the table. "I'm actually hoping that after Thursday I can find someone else to manage the room."

My fork stills in my salad as I furrow my brow. "I thought you said I did alright." My ego is slightly wounded. I personally think I did more than alright given the intensity of that room and the amount of time I had to prepare for it.

"You did. I just think there is a different position here that would be better suited for you," he says gently, taking a bite of the pasta.

"And what position is that?"

"We have a MBA program that's affiliated with the university, and—"

"What program?" I blurt. I don't know anything about a program. I wonder for a moment if I missed something at one of the management meetings.

"I was just getting to that," he says with a smirk. "It's new."

"It must be," I murmur, breaking from his intense gaze and focusing on the salad in the plastic container in front of me. I note that at least he's brought something equally generic. I was half expecting some five-star meal that he would try to claim he made himself. I feel slightly better knowing I don't have to feel inadequate about my lunch choices.

"I understand that you've had to put your studies at the university on hold for a while," he starts.

My mouth drops open as I glance back up at him. "How did you…" He lifts a brow, opening the bottle of water and taking a long sip. Of course he knows. _Remember… he sees everything. _ I nod, twirling my fork absentmindedly through the salad. "My father had a stroke about two months ago, and the treatment centre is… well, it's not cheap… for us, anyway." I shake my head, staring blankly into the salad. "I had to switch to fulltime here to afford it. I can always finish my MBA later on, once Charlie is better and back on his feet." I try to sound hopeful, but I know I'm failing miserably. Charlie still has a very long way to go before I can even start to think about going back to school.

"I'm sorry about your father," Edward says genuinely after a pause. "If it's any consolation, I know how it feels." I lean back in the chair, looking at him questioningly, abandoning my fork.

"My dad had a heart attack," he explains, his entire demeanor softening as he shakes his head. "It's a helpless feeling to see the man you idolize lying in a hospital bed with tubes sticking out of him."

I nod in quiet understanding. "It really is. There are days I wonder if he'll ever be the same," I say, my voice shaky. I turn my attention out the window, trying to collect myself. _You will not break down… not here… not in front him! _

I feel the warmth of his hand cover mine, and I turn back to him, my eyes darting from his hand to his face. "It does get better. I promise you," he says sincerely.

I manage a half smile, biting the inside of my cheek to keep the tears at bay. This is not what I had in mind when I came in here today. If I'm being honest, I'm not really sure what I expected, but I know it wasn't a deep conversation about my father.

The warmth of his hand is comforting in a way, and I find myself wondering what it would feel like on other parts of my body. Feeling the heat rise in my face, I tentatively slide my hand out from under his, and the warmth slips away.

He reaches for the stack of papers after a beat, sliding it across the table and clearing his throat.

"The MBA program we've developed will allow you to keep working here, for the same amount of pay, while you continue with your education. You can work on your final project, and at the end of the term, you'll have your MBA."

I stare at the papers, wondering if I just heard him correctly. "Wh… what? How?" I stammer like an idiot.

He grins, clearly amused. "Think of it as an internship, but I will warn you, it won't be a walk in the park. We have our charity event for the Heart and Stroke Foundation coming up, and if you agree, I'd like for you to head that up as part of the program. You'll have a mentor, organize all the meetings, perform analysis, and be responsible for the budget. Actually, you'll be responsible for every single minor detail that is associated with the Foundation."

He says the words as if this is no big deal at all. I'm unable to really process what he's actually saying. I feel like I've stepped outside of my body again and am watching this conversation from somewhere else. Will all of our discussions be like this? Where I sit in bewilderment at him, gaping like a fool?

"Bella?" he prompts, snapping me back to reality. I blink at him and dig deep to find Corporate Bella… the one who was in charge of the _Twilight Room_ last night. The one who can multi-task and manage irrational millionaires with ease. She's in here somewhere and I need her desperately.

"It's a wonderful opportunity, Edward. I'm not really sure what to say." There… that sounded convincing. Very corporate.

"You don't have to say anything right now. Look over the proposal, and make some comments. Perhaps there are things you can suggest to improve it," he offers. "I'll have Mrs. Cope send you an electronic copy as well."

I nod, glancing at the papers, feeling slightly overwhelmed. "What about my job at reception?"

"If you take this on, you won't be needed down there. Quite frankly, you wouldn't have time to even if you wanted to. Your mentor can be a real hard ass," he states with a smirk.

I can't stop the chuckle that escapes. "Yeah, you can be."

His crooked smile widens as he reaches over to steal one of my strawberries. "Oh, I wouldn't be your mentor, Bella," he says cryptically, biting into the strawberry.

"You wouldn't?" I ask, my voice sounding slightly higher than normal while my eyes drift to the tiny drop of juice that sits on the corner of his mouth.

He shakes his head slowly, his tongue sweeping across his lips to capture the droplet of juice. "No. It would be my mother."

_WC_

An hour later, I'm wandering around in the shopping concourse in a virtual daze, having yet another out of body experience.

On top of the bombshell that I could potentially finish my MBA _and _continue to be employed, Edward not so subtly suggested that I would need another dress for tomorrow night in the _Twilight Room_. I suppose I can't be expected to wear the same eight hundred and twenty-five dollar _Prada _outfit again. That would just be scandalous. I roll my eyes at myself. I guess I shouldn't complain. There are worse ways to spend an afternoon.

After being whisked down from the twentieth floor by the fastest elevator on the planet, I did take a few minutes to sit in the atrium and look over the MBA proposal. Surrounded by flowering magnolias and fragrant orchids, I skimmed over the outline as well as his mother's bio and information on the foundation which she heads up.

Helping to raise money and awareness about what has affected Charlie and me so deeply is obviously something close to my heart. I wondered briefly if he did the whole thing on purpose. The thought is unsettling and I choose to push it away, focusing on the opportunity. I would be an idiot to pass this up.

I'm not going to lie though, the thought of working so closely with Edward's mother does scare the living hell out of me. I've heard nothing but good things about her, and her charity work certainly speaks for itself, but it seems like a daunting task to try to live up to everything she has done.

Needing to clear my mind, I escape from the labyrinth of the atrium and into the throngs of shoppers spending money like there is no tomorrow. Bypassing _Gucci_ and the memory of the acidic blonde sales woman sent from the gates of hell, I pass store after store.

Most of the shop windows house dresses that are more suited for a night of clubbing – skin tight, way too short, and extremely revealing. W_hen was the last time you went clubbing?_ My mind is clearly working overtime. Certainly, it's been a while… a very long while.

Maybe that's what I need-a night out on the town. I know Alice would be there in a heartbeat. Sadly, I'd rather spend any free time I have at home with a good book or a movie. The thought of leering and desperate guys spilling drinks as they attempt to look interesting while they try to pick me up, is not my idea of a good time.

As I move along the concourse in a haze, I'm distracted by wondering what Edward's idea of a good time is. Shaking my head, I find myself in front of _Calvin Klein, _looking up at a sophisticated, dark blue, v-neck, knee length dress. Simple and classic. That's more like it. Taking a deep breath, I turn into the store, praying that I don't encounter another blonde sales clerk with an attitude.

_WC_

Clutching a grey _Calvin Klein_ dress bag under my arm with my lunch bag, I hold the MBA proposal in my other hand, standing in line at _Starbucks._ I think I may be in love with Mr. Klein. The dress fits like it was made for me, and I didn't have to endure any whiplash mood swings when I mentioned the purchase would be added to Edward's account.

That feeling is still unsettling, but my wardrobe is just not going to cut it for what is required in the _Twilight Room_. I also know that it's more than just the shopping adventure that has me unsettled. This whole afternoon has been overwhelming and it's left me in desperate need of something familiar. Right now, that something is a grande vanilla bean frappuccino with extra whip. Screw the non-fat option.

I shuffle along in the line waiting as customer after customer puts in their complicated order. It reminds me of Charlie's extreme dislike of this place. "A coffee should be simple. You shouldn't need a menu to order one," he always says.

I wonder when the next time is we'll get to have that conversation without him having to struggle through it. I close my eyes, feeling the stress of the last few days washing over me. Tomorrow only promises to bring more of the same, with an evening in the high roller room on the horizon.

"Miss?" The sound of the young man behind the display case brings me back to reality. I move up to the counter, placing my order.

As another Barista whirls the blender to life, he punches a few buttons on the register, looking up at me. "That will be $4.51." Charlie would be infuriated at the price. I smile at the thought, glancing down to my hands for my purse, suddenly feeling the heat rise in my face.

Oh, fuck. In my haze, I went straight from his office to the atrium and then to the shops. I didn't even stop to pick up my purse. I feel the judging eyes of the customers in line burn into me as they all wait impatiently for their caffeine fix.

"Oh… I…" My now sweaty hands shift the dress bag as I will the ground to swallow me up. How embarrassing is this? Can I add a frappuccino to Cullen's account? My stomach turns at the thought. I'm fairly certain that they are not going to want to call up to a CEO's office and get approval. Why am I such an idiot sometimes?

"I left my purse up at the Oasis. Can I just pay you back tomorrow?" I ask desperately in a hushed whisper, leaning forward and praying that he takes pity on me. Unfortunately, I don't think I'm going to be that lucky.

He furrows his brow, looking a little sorry for me. "I'm really not supposed to…" he starts quietly.

"I'll get it," a firm, male voice from behind me states.

I turn around surprised, looking up into a pair of dark brown eyes, my own quickly taking in the man who is saving me from utter humiliation. He's dressed in a dark, grey suit which does nothing to hide his obviously muscular body. A crisp white shirt under his suit highlights his short, cropped, jet black hair and coppery skin. He flashes a smile at me as he casually twirls a key ring around his index finger.

"You don't have to do that," I say, rather weakly as the crowd behind us grows more impatient.

He stops twirling the keys, engulfing them in his hand while he grins at me. "I know, but I make it a policy to never let a good frappuccino go to waste," he teases.

I chuckle, relaxing slightly. "I can pay you back. I work right upstairs at the Oasis," I explain.

He smirks, his eyes sweeping to the garment bag in my hands, and he nods slowly. "I'm pretty sure you're good for it," he says, easing beside me, turning his attention to the cashier and places an identical order to mine.

I stand meekly beside him, watching while he lifts his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket, opening it up to reveal a wad of cash. I look away while he pays, moving down the counter to wait for the order.

Sometimes I forget just how much money some of the people in Vegas have. He's another high roller, no doubt. Not that it matters who he is. He's saved me from a massive embarrassment, and that's all I really need to know. I intend on thanking him and calling it a day. I'm beyond exhausted, and I still want to visit Charlie before it gets too late for him.

He grins, making his way to me, stopping to lean against the counter. "So, you can afford something from there…" He nods to the garment bag before continuing, "…but somehow you don't carry any money around."

"It's a long story," I say, shifting the bag in my arm. A bit of a cocky comment coming from a perfect stranger, but I guess he does have a point.

"Hmm…" His eyes settle on mine. "I'm Jacob Black," he says with an air of confidence, extending a hand.

The name rings a familiar bell in the back of my mind somewhere, but I can't quite place where I've heard it before. I set the proposal down on the edge of the counter, sliding my hand into his. "Bella Swan. And thank you… you know, for the frapp." His hand engulfs mine, and he tightens his grip gently.

"You're very welcome, Bella," he replies, his dark eyes never leaving mine. "You work at the Oasis, huh? What's that like?"

I break from his stare to look down at his hand, which is oddly, still holding mine. Glancing back up at him, I slip my hand from his and try to look as casual as he does. "It's really great, actually. Are you visiting or do you work around here?" I ask.

His smile widens as he makes a show of looking over his shoulder before leaning closer. "I work down the street," he whispers. "I'm really not supposed to be here. Shhhh!"

I laugh as he gives me an exaggerated wink, and I play along, nodding while I whisper a reply. "Right… It will be our little secret."

He laughs, flashing me a megawatt smile as the barista calls out our frappuccino orders. He passes one to me, and I take a long sip. "God these are good! Thank you, Jacob. I really needed this."

"I can assure you, Bella," he starts, his voice dropping slightly. "The pleasure is all mine."

"Okay, well, I guess I'll see you around," I say, turning for the exit to the shopping concourse, and feeling the need to get home as fast as humanly possible. I've had enough encounters today to last me for a while. I need my university hoodie and my yoga pants, stat.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Jacob's voice calls out to me, causing me to stop in my tracks.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath, turning back to the counter, seeing him waving the proposal in his free hand. "Yeah… sorry. I'm usually not this out of it. It's been a long day."

He grins, handing the papers back to me. "Sure, sure. I know the feeling. Hope the rest of your day gets better," he says happily. "And remember, it's Vegas! Anything can happen!"

I laugh at his enthusiasm. "You're right, and thanks again, Jacob."

He smiles at me while I tuck the proposal under my arm, and sip happily on my free drink as I make my way out of _Starbucks._ Looking back over my shoulder, I see him lift his frappuccino in my direction, nodding before disappearing into the crowd.

Smiling, I make my way back up to the Oasis. Who says random acts of kindness in Vegas are dead?

_WC_

"One more time, Dad," I say encouragingly, watching as he lifts a shaking spoonful of the rice pilaf concoction to his lips.

His brow furrows deeper in concentration as he opens his mouth, a few pieces of rice falling off before he closes his lips around the spoon. It's taken us almost twenty minutes to eat just a few bites. Still, it's progress, and I'll take whatever I can get at this point.

Smiling, I hold the plastic, blue water glass for him, tilting the straw to his lips. "Take a little sip," I instruct quietly.

He keeps his eyes on me, sipping slowly before pulling back, resting his head into the propped up pillow. "Th…thanks, B…Bells," he manages. "You d…don't have to—" He shakes his head slowly, not saying anything else.

I know how hard this is for him, having his independence taken away. It's hard for me too. So, I do the only thing I know will help relax him, I take his hand in mine, squeezing it tightly, and shift our attention to the sports section of the _Las Vegas Sun_ newspaper. I listen as he slowly reads the first page to me in stuttered breaths, his eyes widening at the latest NCAA basketball stats for the Rebels.

"They're n…not doing so h… hot," he notes, shaking his head in disappointment. "May… maybe next year."

I nod, smiling as he continues reading out loud, my eyes falling to the City section of the paper that sits on the end of the bed. I furrow my brow, seeing the headline: _Eclipse Set to Expand Poker Lounge_. Some casino is always expanding. I'm not even sure why this is news. They never seem to be satisfied with what they have. Everything always has to be bigger, better, and louder.

Opening up the section to read the article, I feel my mouth drop open, staring back at the name in bold letters under an intimidating looking stock photo.

**Jacob Black, CEO**

He didn't look so intimidating this afternoon.

Chapter end notes.

Hmm… Thoughts?

Twitter: CarLemon


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